Black Society
by Carlis.B
Summary: Mafia AU. Mafia!Kristoph and Phoenix both heads two different mafia families, in a city being turned upside down for a lost shipment of drugs. And as the mob wars rage, Apollo and Klavier both gets dragged into their little personal vendettas...
1. Prologue : One of Five, falls

Hi, guys. I'm back after a hiatus of [one] day to cloud fanfiction with more of my stuff. I wanted to try my hand in some AU this time, since I've exhausted all canon storylines that interested me. I was gonna put it off a little, but then I saw a prompt in the kink meme requesting it – so I decided to start it.

**Summary **: Set in an AU that runs parallel to the canon universe in some ways, Kristoph Gavin is the head of the Gavinne Familly. Zak Gramarye stands at the beginning of our story as the rival to the family, himself being the head of the Gramarye Family. With Bruno Cadaverinni newly gone, the balance of the mafia's power in the city is askew, and all the crime lords are struggling to take over everything that belonged to the Cadaverinnis. Then a large shipping of drugs disappears, and the city burns between the gangs, and like quicksand, they suck in all those around them...

Apollo, a straight-laced public defender, gets sucked into the underworld mess, and there, he'll meet Klavier, the unappreciated brother of Kristoph, who's just waiting for that golden oppurtunity to show the world exactly how badass he can be when he wants to be. In case it's not already obvious, contains badass!Klavier and badass!everyone else.

**Niceties :** ...Do not exist. Well, you know the drill. Violence, swearing, etc. etc.

**Pairings : **Klavier/Apollo.

Okay, that's enough bitching. Fuggedabout it, let's get this thing started.

* * *

_How marvelous, how beautiful, society!  
Look, madame, and smile at it!  
Can you not see, it's cracked beauty?  
It's charming grace, it's distorted face?_

_Smile madame, smile with me!  
We shall sit here, we shall drink tea,  
Watch, as the crows, flutter amongst these,  
Paltry no-goods, yesterday's peas!_

_Here madame, have some sugar,  
You'll need it, in the face of danger –  
Not that it would come to us, of course!  
We'll let it run, yes, run it's course..._

_Prologue : One of Five, is gone  
_

Mike drew the cigarette out of his lips and dragged it down the rough surface of the wall. A moment later, it's on flames – no, not because the wall light it up with friction, because that never happens outside of Survivor – but because he's lighten it up. He blows a ring of smoke out, an art's he's mastered, making a perfect O shape in air. That's really the only thing he's good at it – blowing smoke rings. And because he's an associate whose only skill is to blow smoke rings, he's never going to make it big in the crime ring. That's a given thing. Hello everyone, meet Mike Michaels - a man destined to have his whole life's story in one paragraph, and will never live up to the lofty expectations of himself. An insignificant man. A worm.

Mike smokes, and the smoke, it trails up and floats away, wising up and curling around in midair like somebody's mistress. It floats all of five feet across the gray pavement outside the PA Medical Alliance, and it hits the man standing in front of him like a brick. The smoke curls, and the smoke wises up some more. It hits the nose of Diego Armando like a million tonnes worth of pins and needles, and he whips around to glare at Mike.

"You gonna stop that? Because that, my man, is going to take five years out of your leftover ten."

Mike snorts and raises one lip in answer – but the cigarette stays. He stops puffing it out in Armando's general direction though, because Armando and him? They don't rub. Armando runs with the Gramarye family, who in turn runs about a quarter of the city. If there's such a thing as good guys in the underworld, it'll be them - there's never been a bigger bunch of flower-loving, tree-hugging pussies. Mike on the other hand, he knows how to choose his cards right. No, he turn tricks for the Gavinne family instead. They run a quarter of the city too, but with a man like Kristoph Gavinne in the helm, with a man who knows which apple to pick and which apple to drill ten holes right through - you know you won't go wrong. If you stick to Kristoph Gavinne, you'll either make it out rich and fabulous...Or not at all.

Life's funny that way, aye-aye.

They wait a little while longer, and Armando, he presses up against the fence all careful like and checks his watch. It's those pulsar kind, or whatever thing-a-ma-jigs they've invented while Mike's been keeping his eye on the football winnings. Sends some message up to the satellites, and sends them back down. These are the kind of watches that are never wrong, always precise, and five minutes to one in the morning, when Armando announced that fact – Mike believed him.

They crammed themselves up besides the brick and mortar pillars besides the gate. It's sealed shut now, but in a couple of minutes or so it's going to open and Viola Cadaverinni is going to come out, out from her cave and back into the real world for some serious and sleazy business. And the guys here today are all to stop that from happening. They come from both camps, the five or so guys in the place, trying to look inconspicuous underneath the greenish glow of the goddamned ugly green lamp. There are people like him, from the Gavinne Family, and then there are people like Diego Armando, who comes and goes at the bidding of Zak Gramarye. They're all united in one thing tonight though – to not fail. To carry out the wishes of their poundmasters and return like the good bitches they are, carrying the head of Viola Cadaverinni on a silver platter, now with dressings.

They wait, in short, rather like bloodhounds in the dark, attuned to every twitch in the night air. It's a cold night tonight, you see, and most of them are all wrapped up in their dirty coats. No one knows why. It's almost the end of April, and it should be burning hot in L.A by rights now – except it isn't. The snow's drifting down, softly and translucent and looking like someone's green spittle depending on how the light plays on it. Bloody global warming has screwed with the weather the way nothing's ever done before, and all of them were shivering, waiting there like frozen sentries. Waiting for Viola Cadaverinni to dance to their attendance.

Three minutes to one.

A light flashes up on the ground floor window of the PA Med. Alliance. It doesn't look anything like a hospital – it looks more like a sprawling mansion out of an old movie, back when spaces were more available and people can build big shits however they want. One of the eight-panel windows downstairs flashed, and the next thing they know, yellow light is coming right out of it. A couple of figures float pass the window, looking like silent black ghosts gliding through it, and then the doors are thrown apart.

A lady walks out, her dark brown hair reaching waist-length. It's been many years since her marriage with Furio Tigre, and now the man stalks out beside her, all swagger and no bones to prove it. She flicks a hand, and two other guys retreated back into the Medical Center. It's shut off for the night – the whole place having been booked for Bruno Cadaverinni. Now that he's dead, the whole place is dead like him too, and Mike made a mental note of the two guys who went back in, or he'll end up dead himself. All it takes them is to shoot out from inside, and they'll all be dead before they hit the ground. Mike has no idea what kidnapping Viola Cadaverinni is going to give the boss, but he's learned to stop thinking about things that are too big for him now.

Mike's not a smart guy, you see. He leaves 'em thinking to 'em people who can actually think. He's just the spanner you use to pick screws out. You don't need to think too hard when all you needa do is function. What do you need a spanner that can think for?

"So, what are we going to do now?" Mike hissed at Armando's back. He may not like the guy, per se, but he knows where to look for guidance when guidance is necessary. Mike isn't delusional. He knows he ain't got the skills to pull this one off. Armando's the one in charge, the one with the smart ideas, the one with the plan. When the man didn't respond, Mike nudged him on the shoulder.

"Hey, you heard me? I'm asking ya – what are we gonna do?"

The man held out a hand to silence him. "Take it one step at a time, that's what I always say."

"If we take a step in there, we're gonna die like sponges." Another guy pointed out. "There aren't that many of them from the looks of it – just that two kids at the back and the lady and her tramp. But if we make one wrong move, we'll be down and dead before we can spell M-O-O-N."

The man smirked.

"We spell something else then, like C-O-F-F-E-E."

Two minutes to one.

Someone in there must have pressed some buttons, because the gate creaked like an ancient sentry, dragging it's dark green self across the cement ground and scraping it every step of the way like an unwilling slave being dragged off. Furio Tigre and Lady V is on their way, halfway across the spacious parking of the Medical Center. They still had no plan, had no idea what they were doing – and Armando isn't giving them any instructions. They were told by the guy who briefed them earlier to wait 'til one. Something's massive's gonna happen then, and they're suppose to take the chance. But they had no idea what it's going to be - that job is left to one of Kristoph's other men, those important guys that always get the job done and done well, like an egg. Take it one step at a time, just like he said, Mike supposed.

Mike extracted his gun from his coat. It's a brand-spanking new one, just came down from the boss for all the guys put on this job. A shotgun, sawed off and packing enough firepower to blow a very large hole in a very thick man, as well as a silencer each – in case the job needed discretion. The other guys followed his lead, and one by one, the guys all took out their guns – except for Armando. Armando doesn't do shit, and finally Mike got tired of waiting.

"What are we doing, dammit. Standing here and frosting to death?"

Actually, he isn't shivering from the cold anymore. He's shivering from the anticipation. The buzz, the nervous energy in the air. Hey, he's done it plenty of times before, but just because you got ran over by a car a million times doesn't make it a pleasant sensation, does it? You don't run out there, asking cars to run over you for fun, do you? Same theory applies.

Armando clicked his tongue. "Just wait."

One minute to one.

Mike has no idea what in the name of carnations they're waiting for, and he's getting impatient. He's hopping from one foot to one foot, eager to get this over with, not because he's bloodthirsty but like medication, it's best to pour it down in large gulps. He wants to get it over you see - there's a big match down in NHL tonight, and Mike's hoping he gets home in one piece and with both eyes so he can catch the match. But Armando is still stagnant, and Mike decided – screw him anyway. Screw Armando. He heard he's a big ass, a big shot down in Gramarye. Almost as good as the Firebird himself. But if this is what he does on the job – standing around – then screw him. Mike can do better. He's not just good for smoke rings. Mike was getting ready for the action. Getting ready to screw the lady real good when out of nowhere, a sudden shrill scream came out--

"_Achtung! It's one now, folks!_"

This may be a recorded message. This may be someone shouting through a mic. This, for all Mike knows, might be a message from the heavenly cluster of alien planets, Mike does not know, is not in the know – but what he does know, is that in the next second or so, the building exploded.

From what, he has no idea either, only that the building IS exploding, and is doing so very loudly. It starts with those popping sounds that marked that the building's sinews have been severed, then it was a growl, a beastly sort of noise. Then you're not hearing all those anymore, because a deafening boom sounds out - like those Chinese firecrackers Mike's seen that one time in Chinatown - and it goes boom-bash-boom-bash like a Chinese New Year parade you watch while you eat rubbish dim sum you can afford on your rubbish salary.

Bits of metal whizzes past, zooming outwards - an invisible baseball batter is inside there, batting at them. They zip pass like said invisible baseball batter is going at it like a biological freight train, beating out home runs that fly out like projectiles and embed themselves on their surroundings like bullets. Then the home runs are followed by the loudest cheer humanity has seen since Nagasaki and Hiroshima, coming at them in the form of a heat wave that roasted them and made them crinkled on the corners like fries you've left in the oven for too long a time. It goes pass them and through them, pure unadulterated shockwaves of heat.

This, Mike decides - is why using the microwave is a bad thing. You should never cook chicken using an oven, not now, not after you've felt what it feels like to be roasted alive.

If they were all balloons, they would certainly have so much of it by now that they would be floating up to outer space on sheer warmth, but they're not. They're humans, and their skin makes the proper adjustments to stop themselves from turning into Easter Eggs. Pores open out and sweat, it drenches like every drop of water in them is being pulled out, only to immediately dry up because in the face of that kind of heat, you don't have any choice but to dry up like an old lady in a paper bag.

Then the building SANK – and Mike realized what they had done – whoever it was who had done it. They had planted the bombs in the underground parking space, and when they go off, blowing the pillars and foundations to the kingdom come of mortar and bricks, the building sank with it. It doesn't take much. Give it two or three bombs – placed well, placed near, and placed exactly beside the main foundations. What you get is the building going down like a rock in a pool. The ground around it cracks, and the whole building is sinking into the ground, twisted into the vortex of it's own grave, dug by it's creators at birth.

Thank goodness they were an entire parking space away. If they had been any nearer, Mike had no doubt that they'll melt like ice-cream with a sunstroke. He wanted to clap his hands on Armando's shoulder, but it came out more like he was clinging onto the man for dear life.

"You--" He roared over the sound of the building collapsing, not even caring that he could be heard by Lady V anymore. "You rigged this up!?"

"Not me!" Armando roars back, flinging Mike's hands off. "It was your gangs! Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business to settle!"

Mike lost his grip on the man, and he looked up just in time to wince. Another bomb is going off somewhere in there – whoever set this up has to be some kind of visual performing arts guy, because no way is anyone with a sane head doing something like that. There were at least two bombs, going off one after the other, and from the looks of it – they were the kind you use to blow buildings up when your contractor needs to build a new, taller piece of shit in it's place. Whoever set this up, is an egocentric jerk, that's for sure – and that's the last thing Mike notes before Armando dashes off like a man.

Lady V and the Tiger had turned around the moment the building went rah-rah. (And who wouldn't.) Tiger had clamped Viola down to stop her from being blown away completely by the waves of the explosion – thin as a stick as she was – and now the two of them were looking at the building from the ground like it had suddenly popped up and danced them the Paso Doble. In shock, in other words. The building had just...Went up in flames. Someone's roasting turkey. That's enough to put even the most hardcore of mob heads to shock, especially when it had come entirely without warning like theirs.

Armando took that chance, homing in on them like a smart missile that needs no alternative instruction other than to attack the target. A friend of the Firebird is a friend indeed, when you need to ice someone like a six pack. He was on them before the minute hand of one hit two minutes, drawing his own Colt. It's a beautiful baby, the love child of a cowboy and a cowpoke, long slim necks and all – and it hit like a son of a bitch too. He shot it twice – and boy is that guy a good shot, because both Armando's hits went into Furio Tigre. Where, Mike does not see, because from the back of the building, the security booth to be precise, came a toupee of monkey boys. The circus is getting started.

They were Lady V's boys, and were they pissed as shit. They were shouting at the top of their lungs, some obscenities, some shouting ridiculous things like 'Stop!' Mike has no idea why people like to shout 'Stop!' at him when he's doing something, like riding down a speeding train. I mean, this is a train we're talking about right? Not your friendly neighbourhood traffic light? Ridiculous, and Mike drew up his own shotgun to take care of the appropriate nuisances. Gavin pays him for one thing, and it's not to stand around holding metal pompoms and cheering Diego Armando on. He's scared as shit, and if this is normal life, Mike would be pissing his pants. But he doesn't, because God's greatest gift - adrenaline - had kicked in. Without this, there might be less war and more peace, but it would certainly mean no more Mike Michaels, because he would have been shot dead right there.

"GET THEM!" Armando roared at them – and that's all the cue they need. They burst into motion, stomping down the alley and towards the guys in a head-on suicide confrontation. If they had their wits about them – either side – they would have been able to crawl behind a wall and picked them off like fruit flies. But their brain's just been blown to bits by the explosion back there, and their train of thought is going as raggedly as the rhythm of the building is as it falls, collapsing on itself, folding like a house of cards. They should be hiding behind walls and fences and gates, watching bullets ricochet between them. Instead, both sides lunge at each other like an American football match - without reserve.

At this point, Mike is no longer conscious of much except that he needs to shoot and maybe try not to be shot at. Diego Armando however, had no such luxuries. He's facing two against one – and he isn't sure who's more vicious, Lady Viola or her pet tiger. Certainly the pet tiger is more vicious, but he's gone down after the shots. He's back up now though, trading fists with Diego. They're in a barfight now, and the whole medical center scene and go and impale itself on a stake, for all they cared.

There isn't much that Diego would give Tigre credit for – but the man does throw a mean punch. He sidestepped one, took one in the gut like a man – and from the corner of the eye he sees Viola aiming the gun at them. Her hands are steady, rapier straight and certainly not as shaky as one, and the moment Diego proves the victor, that's it. Lady V will show them what V stands for, and it sure as hell isn't something as sweet as the melody of a Violin.

He spins around, dancing like a butterfly – or so he would call it if he had the time to stand aside and narrate it calmly. But he doesn't, so his brain goes off like a football commentary without his usual flair. And now he hits you with an uppercut! You dodge! You give him a jawbreaker, and boy, does that jaw breaks like a nut! Say hello to this fist, because it's nothing short of a nutcracker! Tigre swings again, and Diego swings out of the way with it – knowing he has to do something about Lady V. Winning with her around is just the same as losing, and when you put that up, the picture doesn't fit. The victor goes down as the spoils?

Not his way!

They're getting closer to Viola now – and Diego can see her turning around in time with them. She doesn't back away. The closer she is, the easier it would be to shoot, and though she's no amateur when it comes to holding the guns, it's obvious that she isn't used to being on the battlefield. Armando sees through that – you can't hide something like that from him. Tigre gives him one last punch, and Diego's close enough to Viola now – she's barely five feet away from them. He flicks an eye at his gun, lying on the concrete ground like a sad, forlorn lost puppy. Well, you know what they say – if you don't have a weapon, you find one!

"That how you punch, kitten? I've seen beanstalks hi-jump-kick better!"

With an angry roar, Tigre lunges forward, and Diego tosses himself aside just in time. Tigre nearly falls, and behind him, Viola lets out a tiny shocked gasp. Diego took the chance like it was a mother of pearl. He twisted behind her, swishing like they were jiving to jazz instead of melting metal and gray rocks, and he clasped her hands from behind. She's stunned for just that fraction of a moment, then she struggles against Diego – but too late. He hooked his finger around her trigger finger, and presses what she wouldn't. The bullet goes out like a caterpillar outta an apple, and bam, it hits Furio Tigre in the chest.

Viola screamed an uncharacteristic scream, howling with fury. She tore one hand off and pulled out a switch blade, and before Diego could stop her, jabbed it backwards and into his left eye. Diego screamed, feeling the pain and feeling it good – but he doesn't let go of her. He came here for his madame as prize, he's not going to walk off without collecting the loot. The eye can be dealt with later, and he clamped down on his lower lip to halt the burst of pain. Knocking her knife off carelessly with one knuckled, he hissed.

"It takes a true contender to know when she's lost."

"Don Tigre!"

"Is down and out! The kitten's bowed, and it's time you do the same!" She shrieked, the usually soft-spoken Lady V disappearing in rage as she sees her husband down and out, maybe even dead. Certainly she does thrash like an eel, and Diego does admire her persistence, if not quite so much the effect. With one hand, he twisted the gun out of her thin hands and clamped the other one around her other wrist, dragging it backwards to stop her from moving so much. Then – he hate to do this to a lady, but sorry kitten, a job's a job, alright? - he brings it down and slams it into her skull, cleanly knocking her out.

Yeah. Mob boss daughter she might have been. Mob boss she might be now. Doesn't give her a veil of invincibility. Infinite ammo code? Off. Infinite life? Off-er still. Diego looks up at where the Gavinne boys are fighting for dear life with the Cadaverinnis. His own two boys had done as he said – flee when the fighting starts, no point wasting lives over a pointless cause. Leave the fighting to them instead, and leave the dying to them too. A real man needs to know how to pick their fights, and it wasn't like their boss would care. Gavin wouldn't give a damn if they came back in a bag or not at all - perhaps even gladder that they won't be coming back. Certainly, it looks nicer on the annual finance. You don't have to pay dead people for doing a job after all.

Quietly, Diego threw Viola over his shoulder effortlessly. She weighted less than a big bag of flour does, and definitely easier to carry. Wincing at the pain of his bleeding eye, now compounded because adrenaline is no longer coming in such large surges, he made way out of the Medical Center's compound. The van's down the road, and Gavinne's boys – the real ones that had been sent out for the job and not just some weeds waiting to be herbicide-d, is down there with it. That's where he's gotta go, to send in the loot. This is the first chain, the first link of a cycle that's going to spin for a very very long time, and he'll be damned if he isn't going to be the one who starts it. Humming jazz tunes, Diego made his way towards the van.

* * *

"_WOOOOOOOOO!_"

Two pairs of hands, making four – shot up into the air and whooped. Both owners were standing on the roof of the van, shouting and whooping at the gone-going-gone building. The explosion is drowning off their voices, but every time the explosive cracks dimmed, it's their voices that can be heard, whooping at the top of their lungs. One of them is Klavier, his blonde hair a little mussed from the wind that had came when the building went down in a pile of fiery red awesome. It's a hellfire - an inferno, and baby, you had better believe him when he said he set _that_ up.

"Are we on fire, or are we on fire, baby!?"

"We're on fire, baby!"

The two of them whooped again, like spectators at a football match, watching as the building collapsed on itself with one final wheeze. It falls into itself, and now it's flat ground when seen from afar, nothing but a pile of smoking gray granite. Nothing but a hole in the ground, and it won't be medicating anybody anytime soon. Klavier slapped Zee on the back, the both of them still a little wild-eyed, watching their handiwork blossom like a flower. This must be what parents feel like when their kids grow up...Explosively. Snicker, snicker. Yes, explosively is right. Nothing beats the feeling of seeing something you set up going. A train system that you've lined and switched, chugging smoothly and fine. Or maybe a chain of dominoes you've pushed.

"Achtung! That my man, is a job well done. Congratulations baby – you're on fire!"

"We're on fire! Whoop, whoop!" Zee accompanied each whoop with another punch into the air, then he let the fist down, and let himself fall backwards until he landed on the roof of the van with a thunk, falling like a dumbbell.

"Okay," He announced. "That is my heart. It's gone bon voyage. Bye bye baby. I'm dying and hitting the 9-1-1s."

"Ach, don't be stupid." Klavier collapsed beside him too, knees feeling a little shaky. He can't believe he just did that. Blew up a building. His knees felt like jelly, his stomach like a blender. Whirling and spinning and churning his supper and dinner into mush, and if he had eaten more - as undignified at it was, Klavier rather thought he would turn around and throw up all over into the bushes.

Yes, he knew full well it was going to happen. Yes, he was the one who had snuck into the place, planted the bombs, and made kitty before they could sink their fangs into him. Yes, admittedly he's been doing this sort of stuff since he's seventeen, running about and completing errands for his brothers. It doesn't make it any easier though, or less nerve racking. Especially when the jobs his brother hands him are mostly – like this one – jobs that cannot be failed. If you walk in on these with your hands empty, chances are you'll be frothing blue bubbles by midday next week. Not that it mattered to Klavier Gavin – why would he fail, ja? He's the star prosecutor, the infallible one. It'll take more than a little lady and a little mortar to beat him.

"That," Klavier pointed at the hole in the ground. "Is a job well done. I would flatter us again, but I think I've run out of praises."

"We're so awesome it hurts to be us," Zee agreed. The two of them nodded like they were debating Republican, then laughed at themselves – two kids back at playing street pranks and admiring their own handiwork. They couldn't care less that the building's been reduced to a pile of rubble - after all, isn't it going to be built right back up using their tax money? And Kristoph would of course, donate a generous sum to rebuild the thing, thereby repaying his karma debt and boosting his standing amongst the politicians. So why care about something that's going to be running once again by the middle of next month?

"Right, we better get down. Armando's gonna come around anytime soon, and we gotta get away before the white hats comes a-calling."

Klavier nodded in agreement and slid down the roof via the way of the windshield, landing like a cat on both feet. He looked up and down the street to see if the explosion had alerted anyone, but no one lives around here for blocks. It's an office-shoplot area, and the street had emptied out for the night. With one side of the PAMC ending in a small park-forest, the sound had been muffled by wood and lice and solid, impenetrable gloomy. The white hats won't be here, at least not until someone notices the dragon of smoke in the sky, curling and shrieking in the night air and begging for attention.

A moment later, Zee joins him, grinning so widely he looked as if his face would split into half any moment now. They stood there grinning, until an irritated rap on the windshield told them to move and they did. Zee's still grinning as they waited for Armando, leaning against the van, the metal cool to the touch. The van's parked so far away that the explosion hadn't left them with any visible effects other than a slight mussing of hair. Klavier understood though, why Zydaline's grinning like a – like a – well, there's no other word for it – like a pyromaniac. The job's a job well done, and when you've done a job well done, you must smile like a man who's done a job well done - rule of thumb. Smile, make love to your face, or you'll be left with wrinkles the size of the Grand Canyon by Father's Day when the realization of what you've done sinks in.

Klavier couldn't help a small self-satisfied smirk of narcissism. He, Klavier Gavin - he makes the most useful friends, no? Zee's handy, like a spanner. He's good at the drum, and he doubles as a bomb diffusing expert down in the PD, and here's the thing, ja? When you teach people how to unmake something, chances are – you're teaching them how to make it too. So here's Zee, bomb fighter by day, bomb planter by night. Handy all 'round, and it's no wonder his brother keeps him around like said spanner. He's a set meal - you get all the chili nachos on one side and the burning tomato sauce on the other.

The smile got wiped off Zee's face though, as he looked pass Klavier's shoulder. Klavier followed his line of sight, and the both of them frowned out at the parking lot. There's some kind of...Fight down there. People are going at it like screwdrivers, screwing each other around like said things. Shootings, shouting – and in the middle of it, the recognizable weed-thin form of their target, Viola Cadaverinni. There's a bunch of other people too, but none they can recognize from afar. The only thing that stood out about her is the hair. The both of them leaned against the undamaged decorated fence on the far side of the PAMC, staring in with slight scowls marring their foreheads.

This isn't what they had in plan. What they had in plan, in their little dreamy rock-star world was that they would blow the place up and take out half of the guys stationed around the place, and Armando would snatch the lady away while heads were still turning. Then again, they had no real plan either - hadn't had time to clobber up one. They barely had time to snuck the bomb in, as it was, and watch with just that tiny tinge of worry as a full out fight broke out in the parking lot.

Klavier whistled as a fist collided into Diego's face. "Ach, I hope Armando does what he said he will do. My brother won't be pleased with him if he fails us."

Zee shrugged, not having a comment either way on Diego Armando. There are some other things for him to worry about - like if the bomb structure could be traced to him. Besides, there's nothing of Diego he cares about. They've heard of him sure, these things travel fast. He's a good guy – not those backstabbing, face-ripping kinds. He's a good guy, and he does his job well. He fights well, shoots well, and in their world, in this topsy-turvy world where everything is either three shades of black or three and a half shades of black, that's really all you need to know.

You fight well, shoot well? Good to have you. Not on our side? Here's a bullet through your heart.

They watch as the tussle went on. Someone goes down, someone goes up again. It's like a dance - a wild but repetitive sort of jiving - and within moments, the spectators were bored. Klavier yawned. It's getting sleepy. He has court tomorrow, and this whole Batman thing doesn't make him immune to being sleepy. Tomorrow, he's going to suffer for this, having dark eye circles but enjoying the knowledge that while his colleagues had been asleep and dreaming of their stock markets, he had done this - this thing that will be all over the news tomorrow and the only thing on their minds as they eat their toast and drink their coffee and watch as their stock market goes up up into the sky.

"Let's go in," He told the other man, and they slid the door of the van apart and winged their way into it. Inside, it's all warm and cosy – beats being outside, where the frost is starting again. Something about L.A weather these days...

They waited in the darkness, not daring to turn on the lights and attract attention to the lonely little van. Klavier propping himself up using one arm to stop himself from falling asleep, and Zee pulling out a magazine and reading it in the bad light. Their driver for the day, he doesn't say anything. Just sits there and stares out of the frosting glass like it's a web of spiders that had enchanted him. So they keep their mouth shut, and the door shut, and five minutes later, a loud pound came from the door.

"Open up," A voice growled.

Klavier took the cue, waking up and peeling the door backwards. It slides smoothly and with a vrooming sort of noise as the metal slides flawlessly, and Viola Cadaverinni was immediately dumped into the van like a sack of cool potatoes. Zee whistled.

"In one piece! You're amazing --"

"Keep your pointless flattery to yourself," Armando growled.

"--But not as amazing as we are of course," He quipped in return. "Did you see how we blew that thing up? It went like smoked salmon on the rocks."

Armando slammed the door shut and growled in answer, never one to offer praises, even grudgingly. "That was the showiest piece of fireworks I've ever seen. Completely pointless, and it could have gotten you killed if the situation is different."

Klavier had better things to occupy his time than pointless banter. He immediately got down on one knee, knelt beside Viola in the space that they had cleared in the van for her, and pulled out a small device. It's barely bigger than a pager, but it does what it needs to do. Klavier dragged one of Viola's unconscious thumbs and pressed it down hard against the device, grinding it in when it doesn't respond well. It beeps. Once, twice, then the thing read in a way a fool would've understood :** MATCH**

"Ausgezeichnet, Herr Armando." He complimented, putting the PD-pilfered device away. "It looks like we got the right person after all."

"If it looks like a kitten and it smells like a kitten, it can't be anything but a feline now, can it?"

Klavier shrugged. "There have been stranger things than plastic surgery, ja? But it's of no consequences now – she's Viola Cadaverinni, exactly who we want." He climbed back up to the seat, stretching his legs as the van purred and moved out from it's spot on the road, even as sirens began it's slow mournful wail in the distance.

"A job well done, Herr Armando. I see their praises do not fall flat."

"Save it," Armando snapped back. "I'm not here to serve your brother. I'm helping _him_ out. Giving him a hand. Never and don't ever forget that."

Klavier nodded regally, every inch the gracious person when he wants to be. "Of course, Herr Armando." He smirked at the unconscious lady. The light from the van window plays in while they move, shooting in and making the colours of the van interior vary. It becomes yellow when they pass a street lamp, green when they move out of it's illumination, and black when there is none. Propping his head up to nap again, Klavier wondered exactly how much fun the next few months is going to be. Certainly a lot of fireworks – from the look of it. His brother's got plans. Big plans.

"Well, we have our cue shot," He announced. "Now let's see the runners run, ja?"

* * *

A tiny tiny chapter to start things off. A little note on the side ; In this AU, Daryan is not in the band. The band encompasses Klavier and the three other leftover members. I don't really like making a band out of him and OCs, but unfortunately, it has to be done - Daryan's going to appear later as something entirely different. And because this is a first chapter, I was too lazy to cook up any kind of spectacular plot, so I just made the building explode and sink.


	2. I : That sneaky man

Pardon me for the sucky writing. Feeling kind of depressed. Also, read Croik's Be My Lady, and now I'm seriously depressed. I'm torn between wanting to ship Kristoph/somebody, but can't, mostly because he's such a gone case and any romance story is just going to end badly/depressingly and I'll be...depressed.

Well, you know what to do when you're depressed. Write more!

**: Stalker :** Kazaf has been discontinued. I know that since this is a mafia AU, it'll be the perfect chance for some police chief action, but I don't want him around because he would have too much 'absolute power' in the story. He would be calling all the shots, and determining who lives and dies, and I don't want my OC to have so much power. (I prefer them when they're squished like bananas LOL)

Nail I dunno. Probably a couple of cameo appearances? Zee's going to take the center stage this time, and maybe Enrich too. There's another lady that's going to appear later on as well.

* * *

_One : That sneaky man  
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"Mmm...I think my hair will need to be snipped a little."

Klavier watched from the armchair as his brother peered concernedly into the mirror, fingering a lock of blonde hair before flicking it back into it's flawless spot on his forehead. The glasses are righted with two elegantly outstretched fingers, and that is it – you're once again looking at the man they call The Gentleman on the streets. The name that strikes fear into the alleyways of L.A, whose name clouds every pack of white that exchange hands like a fearful black cloud, the plague and pestilence of the L.A district.

You see, Kristoph Gavin is a powerful man. And the worse part of it is that he doesn't shoot you dead when you cross his path. No, he'll pat you on your back and tell you it's not your fault – then when you think the worse of it is over in a month or so, his gentlemen will come, take you up, and hang you on the nearest telephone pole. The guy that can stab you with one hand and flip the pages of the bible with the other, that's him. That makes him one of the last guys you want to cross on earth, and yes, that's Kristoph Gavinne, and he's the brother Klavier loves.

"I don't think so, ja? I snipped my hair when you snipped yours, and it is just the right length."

"For you perhaps," His brother returned silkenly, flicking another strand of misplaced hair around like the White Queen. "But you are a rock star, mm? Rules of neatness aren't that well regulated."

"You're a mob boss," Klavier retorted, grinning. "How's that a good platform to be neat on? By rights, you should be part of the great unwashed, ja?"

"Ah, but a leader must always be an example. And if they cannot clean themselves, then it is a reflection of their mental faculties, and is of none of my concern." He flicked another strand of hair, and Klavier got bored watching his brother doing it. He reached instead for the stacks of magazines dumped on the small coffee table and retrieved some of his favourite ones. Those are coffee magazines, or tea magazines. The kind you give people when you want them preoccupied while you consult your badass lackeys, and Klavier hadn't seen them since he moved out of the place a few months ago.

Spread his wings and fly and all that, you know. It wasn't like he could permanently stay with his brother and hope that the PD wouldn't bug him about how he's living with one of the most prolific mobsters around L.A. They're already having trouble trusting him thanks to the connection, thank you very much – and well they should, because Klavier can't recall a time when he wasn't helping his brother out with his sneaky and under-the-table deals. If you asked him what has he been doing all his life five seconds before his demise, he would probably tell you that buddy, he's been doing nothing but helping his brother out, being underhanded and all sorts of bastard. Hey, it's fun. The fast life. But fast lives gets too much spotlight, and a triple layer cheesecake is more than he can take. Mafiaso, Virtuoso, and Prosecuto? The press will eat him like a banana split. So he got an apartment of his own, and now he's gone. The ties to the mob stays though.

Kristoph looked up, arching a trimmed eyebrow. "Where's the lady, Klavier?"

"I put her in the cellar. She's still thrashing like an eel in there, and thank goodness all the wine's out, or we'll have some serious bashing on our hands, ja?"

"Indeed."

The wine cellar of the Gavinne mansion has been out of commission for years now. It's back from the days when people still churn wine out using their arms or whatever, using those barrel contraptions and going round and round all day pressing grapes - and Kristoph's collection has since moved to their lounge. So Viola Cadaverinni is there now, angry and well justified for it, because somewhere out there is Furio Tigre, and her husband is either being nursed back to good health by a sexy nurse and cheating on her with some doctor-patient sexytimes, or being nailed into a pine box by Enrich or some other coroner.

Kristoph straightened himself, smiling in self-satisfaction at the mirror. He flicked his hair one last time to make sure that come hail or snowstorm, nothing is going to mess up that hairdo, and pulled his jacket off the hanger. "See to her for me won't you, Klavier? If all things proceed well, she'll be in there for quite some time yet. I don't need a corpse in my hand, though she would serve just the same either way."

Klavier winced a little at that. It's disconcerting to hear his brother speak of people like disposable napkins, but he's gotten used to what his brother is over the years now - and have mold himself in accordance. "Ach, but you cannot risk it, nein? If the Cadaverinnis hear that she is with us, and she is dead – even the fools will put one to one together, and then we'll have a full on mob in our hands."

"We've always had a mob on our hands, Klavier," Kristoph quipped smilingly. He put on the coat and buttoned it up, and he's back to impeccable as usual. Klavier snorted in response and stood himself, disposing of the magazine on the chair. Kristoph nodded at him in acknowledgment. "Well, off I go then. Deal with her for me, Klavier. You may be hospitable...As long as not foolishly so."

Klavier shrugged. It wasn't like he planned to put Lady Viola in a guest room with an unlocked door, but there you go. Always cautious, and always say things explicitly in the mob – or someone might mistake your words. This way, you can always remind them that you've already told them, and that justifies you when you cleave them into half with the nearest soup ladle. It's something that this dark and dimly lighted world shares with the law. Black and white, that's the important thing. Catch your enemy off guard, and snare all your friends. That's the next important thing.

"Ja, I will remember. You are heading off to Zak Gramarye?"

"Yes," He answered simply. He doesn't offer anymore information than absolutely necessary, and Klavier doesn't ask. He's a prosecutor, and even if he's eye-deep in the mob, the lesser he knows about some of his brother's more 'serious' deals, the better it feels. Then with one last nod, his brother is off, leaving his room and on his way to more of those shady under-the-table deals. He's joined outside by two of his men, stationed outside the door like – Klavier had a strange urge to call them unicorns, because they reminded him of those – like two statues outside the room. Those kinds that you see in front of the senate house because it makes it looks more dignified and less underhanded? Yeap, just like those.

Klavier walked in front of the mirror himself and righted his own hair once he was gone, a perfect replica of Kristoph's. You want to know why he's so not individualistic that he even has hair the same shape and style as his brother? Well, you can bet all your tomatoes he sure didn't ask for it. No, if anything ever happens to Kristoph, then Klavier can replace him in a split second. Put on some glasses and a coat, and he'll be his brother in a thrice and a second – the perfect replacement, like a spare potted plant.

He straightened himself too, exactly like Kristoph did just a minute ago. He doesn't sigh, because he's resigned to this sort of life. No, not even resigned, because resign sound far too reluctant for it. Klavier likes this kind of life. It's fast and it's furious and it never lets go for a moment. It's a reel of black and white mafia film, in full 256 colours, full of drive-by shootings and bar fights, and he likes it – it's not like he's ever known anything different. Kristoph broke out of the Gramarye family and formed his own seven years ago. He's had seven years to come to terms with it now, and like all things, it becomes more tasteless the longer you chew on it.

He does wonder sometimes though, what life would be if Kristoph isn't his brother, and he doesn't have ties to the mob.

Klavier shook his head. "Achtung. Snap out of it, Klavier Gavinne. Next thing you know you'll be reading Byron. Wake up, ja" He nearly slaps himself, just for good measure and to clear his head. He doesn't though, but he sidles up to the mansion window and looked down there, where his brother is just getting into the car. He wondered why he can't shake the feeling that something's up that he doesn't like.

Call it horse sense.

* * *

The door slammed shut and Kristoph clicked it, locking it into his place. The briefcase gets thrown over to the other side of the seating, and it goes with a soft plop because it doesn't carry anything heavier than a couple of guns and a good old chunk of ammo. Those are just safety measures, and Kristoph never shoots unless he absolutely must – they leave more fingerprints you see, and more things for you to clean up. It's one crime to be the one to order a shooting, it's quite another to pull the trigger yourself.

"The Hydeout," He ordered, rapping on the divider between the front and back seat. Through the netting, he can see the head of his driver nodding once, and then the limousine is pulling out of the mansion driveway and rolling outwards, purring like a tomcat you've stroked just right. Kristoph leaned back and pulled out a notebook, crossing things in and out of it and writing things he needed to remember. Not the important things of course, just the ones that wouldn't get him convicted if they were ever found. He doesn't trust notebooks – they betray secrets far too easily. Not as easily as the wagging tongue can of course.

"I see you've received the lady."

Kristoph doesn't bother looking up, but he flicks an eye sideways and sees just as well like that – something he's mastered a long time ago to keep himself alive. The man's one eye was a mess, and even the white cotton patch and bandage on it doesn't hide the fact that it's been seriously wounded.

"Mr. Armando...Was it? Are you sure this is where you should be?"

"Cut that bullshit. Pretending not to remember my name to downplay my importance? I thought you were just that slightest bit above those kind of streetside tricks, Gavinne."

"Perhaps." He shrugged noncommittally. "But my acknowledgment of your christened self isn't going to change the fact that your eye looks rather...Misplaced, shall we say?" Kristoph chuckled at his own joke, but the man doesn't smile. Then again, few ever appreciate Kristoph's sense of humour, goodness know why. He certainly found his jokes very amusing, especially those played at the expense of other players.

"Are you a girl, Gavinne?"

Kristoph raised an eyebrow. "No, I don't think so."

"Then stop acting like a pussy. If you want to say something, say it."

"Very well," Kristoph sat up, and slide the notebook back into place in the door compartment. "What I would like to say is simply this, Mr. Armando. Yes, I'm grateful that you've helped us acquired the lady. Yes, I believe awe is in order. You know of my deal with_ him_...That is why we are heading over to Zak Gramarye now."

Armando's jaw twitched. "And?" He barked.

"And I think you should get out of my car right now, Mr. Armando. You're making an unsightly mess out of it, not to mention you hurt my eyes. One look at you, and Gramarye will know you've been up to something you shouldn't have been in. What do you plan to tell him when you are asked as to why you look like the Phantom of the Opera? That you fell on your dinner?"

Kristoph frowned and glared out of the window, pointedly ignoring Armando. He can see the way Armando's fingers twitched slightly on the leather, and he knows the man isn't used to taking this sort of attitude lying down. Diego is another name to be feared amongst his own circle of men, and the fact that he's bowing to Kristoph now – a man of an entirely different family – meant that something high is at stake. And Kristoph knew what it was.

"How are you going to do it?" Armando snapped out the question. "How do you plan to get him, when there's not going to be anyone but the three of you?"

"You concern yourself with things too worldly for your own understanding."

"Answer me." He gnashed those teeth at him. "I want an answer – and you owe me for it."

"Tell me a reason I should tell you, and I will."

"You know full well everything I'm after."

Kristoph tapped his fingers on the couch, then with a slight smile, he slid apart the tiny compartment built into the door to store things, and retrieved a small roll of bandages. Right now, it doesn't contain anything but Kristoph's notebook and some harmless first aid, though God knows it's seen far more dangerous things than that.

"Why don't you put that on, Mr. Armando, and think of an excuse?"

Armando raised an eyebrow in return, accepting the bandage and a blade to cut it with. "You realize that by letting me into your meeting, you're adding another person against you?"

Kristoph merely smirked. "Not a hundred men like you can stop the little cogs about to turn, my dear man."

* * *

Klavier peered through the velvet curtains and watch as his breath clouded the frosty pane and formed a misty shape on it. The limousine is downstairs, and he watches attentively as the limousine pulls out of the drive and rolls out all the way until the front gates, which had to be a hundred meters away if it was one. Then the black shiny vehicle is gone, and Kristoph is gone, gone to be sneaky again.

Oh well, he shouldn't worry about his brother. Kristoph will be fine.

Pulling back from the window, Klavier climbed down from the stool. Something about kneeling on a stool and pressing a hand against a window made him feel like a child all over again, waiting for his brother to come back home from some court case, and depending on how he did, either threw a Kristophian sort of moody tantrum or buy him dinner. He slipped out of the room and into the house, now rather empty because it's almost two in the morning and only the night-shift guards are around. That doesn't mean that there are very little of them though – just lesser – and Klavier passed at least five of them wandering around the hallway while he headed for the cellar.

There, he found the guards barring the doorway, and he nodded at them. They moved out of his way, and within seconds, he's in the room. Viola Cadaverinni had been placed in the room, and it had been made hospitable for her – or at least as hospitable as a cold damp cellar could be anyway. There's a bed in one corner, a lumpy thing they've carried out of the basement to make fit for her. Definitely not fit for a queen, but she's fallen quite some distance since her queenly days, and to think all that had happened within a few hours.

Klavier remembered how it happened. There was some kind of turmoil earlier, and a lot of shouting and confusion and calls that overlapped each other as the satellites explode from the sheer amount of activity in the mob circles. Not literally of course, but you understand what he means, ja? He got his message at five minutes after four, while he was packing up to go home for the day at the prosecutors' office. The message is simple, and even a complete degrade can understand it : Bruno Cadaverinni is dead.

That is news, and that is great news. Great news isn't always good news though, and the circle, it corroded into half as one side fell into everlasting despair and the other soar to great and lasting heights. What happens now, is the question on everyone's lips. What happens to the turf? The Cadaverinnis? Everyone knows of course, that Lady Viola is going to take over – that's a given fact, kind of like one plus one is equivalent to two. Except now everyone wanted to see if the other gangs, the Kitakis, the Rivales, and the two other biggest players of L.A's crime rings – Gavinne and Gramarye – and if they would stand aside and let the lady take up what is rightfully hers, or slip their knife into the armor chips.

Certainly it wouldn't be much trouble. There are those in the Cadaverinni family itself that doesn't like Viola. Some find her creepy, while some are just being dumb men who think ladies should be cooking poisonous soup at home, not leading triad wars. All you have to do is find the right person and pay the right people, and within days you'll have Lady Viola in your soup, simmering quietly. Klavier had wondered along with those people what their actions would be – except he had gotten his answer a little earlier than he would have liked. At five minutes to eight, his brother's 'request' came in. Get his band mate, and get down to the medical center. He doesn't care how Klavier does it, as long as it's done, and the thing hanging in midair like a bad taste is of course – don't fail.

Just another day in the life of Klavier Gavinne, clandestine underboss, and star prosecutor.  
Line up this way for the tickets please.

There are things that even he isn't used to though, and that's playing captor to the damsel in distress. Klavier's more used to charming the pants off them or running the opposite way – if said pants were journalists' pants – but this is a new thing, playing the gracious host to a kidnapped lady.

"Guten Abend, Lady Viola."

Viola started when Klavier materialized at the doorway. Then it dissolves into the usual expression, a slight soft smile – except this time the slight small smile is replaced with a harder set of the mouth. She's angry that they've hurt her husband, and something tells Klavier that this is a lady you don't want angry at you.

"Klavier Gavinne...Was it?"

"That's right," He nodded at her. The wine cellar is a little musty. The door hasn't been opened for years, and it shows with the cloud of dust in the air and the stale smell of a place long sealed off. "I'm Kristoph's brother, but you must have guessed that, ja?"

She nodded, still seated on the chair they moved into the place for her and showing no inclination to move. Kristoph and him look far too alike for anyone to ever mistake them for anything but brothers. Unless it's to mistake one for the other of course.

"I have heard of you – you are very...Precious to your brother, are you not?"

Klavier snorted. "Precious? Me? Ach, it'll be a cold day in hölle before I am anything 'precious'."

She smiled, and Klavier can see why they call Viola Cadaverinni 'The Lady'. She's like his brother, except not as sinister and not as...Pleasant. A little confusing, but it's like two different species of water, yes? She neither boils as hot, nor is she as cold. "Hee....I don't mean it that way. I meant that you are 'useful'. You are the one who puts all our guys – those that are caught – you are the one who made sure that they are sent into the cells, aren't you?"

Ah, that's what she meant.

"Ja," Klavier replied cheerfully. 'Ja, that is I."

"You are a very large nuisance to us," She put forth bluntly – not really caring about discretion. After all, she's a prisoner, bounded, gagged, and dragged unwillingly across the city – you can't get anymore insulting than that. "We've lost plenty of good guys that could have otherwise been returned to the streets."

He shrugged, and fingered one of the empty shelves. The dust is so thick that where his fingers brush past, a line appears on the shelf. The gray substance caked on his finger instead.

"Ach, I pursue the 'truth', that is all, ja?" He answered showily, dusting the finger off.

"The vorpal truth perhaps."

"Ah," Klavier raised the finger and wagged it slightly. "But that is a word we must all disagree on, nein? 'Vorpal' is a faceless portrait, for us to paint on. And just like 'vorpal', the truth is swappable. I am pursuing the truth after all – just selective truth."

Viola doesn't pursue the line of argument, because she knew it would be pointless. Klavier Gavinne has been in the circuit of the mob's lawyers for a long long time now, and a few words from a dark-haired damsel isn't going to change his allegiance. Instead, she rose – rather gracefully, and here again Klavier's struck by how similar she is to his brother. Is there some kind of code that all mobsters obey? Some sort of conduct act? Something he's missing, a memo that had been handed all around the table except to him?

"I won't mince words, Gavinne – let me out of here."

Klavier smirked. Now_ that's_ a question he can answer. "No."

"No?"

"No. Nein. Nej. Negativa. Non. Tell me a language and I'll tell you the same."

At this, Viola scowled at him. "You have no idea what you're doing by refusing to let me out of here."

"Obeying my brother's instruction, perhaps?"

"Do you even have any idea what he's planning to do?"

Klavier tossed his head arrogantly at her. "I'm not his nanny, and he's not mine. What my brother does is what my brother does, ja? He needs not report to me and vice versa."

She growled in frustration, and for a moment Klavier thought she would retrieve yet another one of those switchblades and stabbed him in the eye too, but she doesn't, only pacing around in anger. Something's bothering her – and Klavier doesn't like the way the usually calm and collected Viola Cadaverinni stompS back and forth in rage. He tapped his fingers and count to ten.

"You don't need to take it out on me. I'm only here to make sure you're...What is the word – settled, ja?"

"I don't think I have any choice, do I? This cellar has only one window, and unless Don Tigre comes for me, I won't be getting out of here."

"You can have a guestroom if you want," Klavier offered. It'll have to be locked at all times and there would be guards all around it, but hey – at least it'll be better than sitting around in a musty cellar. Apparently cellars are more her thing however, because Viola merely shot a worried look around.

"No thank you, Mr. Gavinne. You can keep your room to yourself. When Don Tigre comes, the cellar will be far easier to break into than a guarded guestroom."

Klavier shrugged. "Suit yourself, Lady V." That's all he has to do, come in here, chat the lady up – and makes sure she doesn't bash her skull in onto the wall. From the looks of it, she'd rather bash someone else's head onto the wall, so his job is done. All he needs to do is go report or something, and then he's done. With another shrug that fell flat on it's face because she wasn't facing him, he turned around to leave, and was already out of the door when she stopped him.

"Wait, Gavinne."

He turned around halfway, not even bothering to look at her. "Ja?"

"Let me out of here – or you'll be having a deuce-ace war on your hands."

"How is that my problem?"

"Surely you can't not care? People will get hurt. I heard you were kind - at least far kinder than your brother. You won't stand aside...And let people get hurt, won't you?"

Klavier snorted. And this is the problem, ja? He turned around.

"Listen, lady – I don't know where you guys get your information, but I'm not a nice guy, alright? Just because I'm my brother's brother, it doesn't make me any different from him. It doesn't mean I'm just going to let you walk out of here because you asked nicely. So there's going to be a war. Big deal. People die. Big deal. People die everyday, ja? Half of them I execute because they were stupid enough to get caught. And people will continue dying whether or not there's a war in our hands. So the answer is still the same. Nein – you're not getting out of here – at least not through me."

"And if you ask again," Klavier pulled his own revolver out and pointed it at Viola, twirling it a little around his finger. Old bar tricks, makes more impact that way – you look like an old school cowboy. He tilted his head sideways. "I'll shoot you in the head, ja? My brother wouldn't notice the difference if you're Viola Cadaverinni - as of now the head of a completely redundant gang, or a stain in the wall - and frankly I don't give a damn either – except the stain smells worse."

Then he slammed the door shut in her face before she could reply, and the three locks turned and latched themselves onto the solid door – about the most solid thing in the whole of the cellar. He swore as he did it though.

This is exactly what the problem is, the thing's that's making him depressed. Klavier gets zero respect from the other gangs – mostly because he never publicized his own involvement in the gangs. He gets a reputation that way, a reputation where he is soft and weak. They whisper when they think he's not hearing, and they gossip when they think the walls' ears have temporarily gone to sleep. They whisper, and this is what they say : that he isn't up to this world's standards. That he's never been, and is never as cruel as his brother – and one of these days, he's going to have to rectify that, ja? Klavier Gavinne is every inch as badass as Kristoph is, and one of these days, he's seriously going to shove it into their faces.

* * *

The badass in question most certainly wouldn't term himself that way, nor would anyone else – if they saw how daintily he stepped out of the limousine. If it wasn't for the black chrome, so shiny and reflective after being polished to balding heights, he would have looked like a lawyer or some other practitioner of a respectable profession. Oh, did he just categorized a lawyer as being respectable? He takes that back, of course.

Kristoph stepped onto the doorsteps of the Borscht Bowl Club, flicking off an invisible line of lint on his shirt. His jacket is draped over his shoulder – but the moment he steps into the place, he puts it on. Experience told him that the place would literally supercool him so fast he'll turn to ice within minutes of being in it. Experience told him right, as it usually did, and the door opened up to display a room already half into the realms of deep-freezing. He entered the empty club alone, Armando having parted ways with him earlier to prevent anyone from knowing they had stepped out together.

As usual, the club is devoid of humans. How it stays in business only the mob would know, because only the mob frequents this place. Phoenix Wright, the man renown for his ability to set anything and everything on fire – both literally and verbally – is seated at the piano, thunking away at the keys one by one in experiment.

Kristoph winced. This is one man who shouldn't quit his day job.

"I see your piano-playing is as charming as ever, Wright."

Phoenix looked up at him and grinned. A grin that's far too open and friendly for one of their status, and makes people think he's a pushover. But then again, that same smile has watched enough things catch on fire that it should be a feat to be applauded that it's so friendly at all, and Kristoph clapped him on the shoulder like they were old friends.

"Hey there, Kristoph." He thunked a few more keys haphazardly, then he stood and righted his tie. Straightening his suit, he gave an acknowledging nod as Armando drifted into the bar too. "It's good to see you again."

"The sentiment is returned, the sentiment is returned..." Kristoph looked around the room distractedly, but he sees no one. No telltale sign of a balding head or for the matter... "Gramarye hasn't arrive?"

Phoenix laughed, ever the charming host. "No, I'm afraid he hasn't." He walked over to the counter and shook the bell pull. A waitress materialized, covered in thick mittens to keep herself warm in the frigid atmosphere, and he nods at her. "Prepare the Hydeout for us, won't you? We have business there." Then he turned towards Kristoph. 'Shall we have a game of poker, before he arrives?"

"No, absolutely not," Kristoph shook his head firmly. "You know I'll never beat you, Wright."

He laughed again, and went back at the piano, beating out a senseless rhythm. Kristoph took a seat on the table with Armando silently, not bothering to strike up conversation he hadn't a single wish to uphold. It grated on his nerves, to have to wait for someone like this – whoever it might be. That it is Zak Gramarye, it only grates on those nerves more, like strings of fine wine being broken in it's flow by ceaseless interruptions. He's always had some bad blood against Zak Gramarye – a little discontent, a little argumentative. Something about the man annoyed him, and despite it being seven years since he broke out of the Gramarye family and struck out on his own, he can never quite forget being passed over as the underboss. Phoenix had been appointed instead. Now Kristoph is the head of his own gang, but it doesn't make the wound any less sore. Some wounds may close when left untreated, but diseased flesh never truly goes away.

They waited in silence, and when ten minutes passed and no sign of Zak Gramarye appeared at the doorway, Phoenix suggested that they all moved into the Hydeout instead. "It's warmer there."

Phoenix lead their little party of three, and they climbed down the steps and into the basement of the building, where as usual, the table is set up with decks of cards for little games of Poker. Phoenix is after all, a legend amongst the gangs – an undefeated poker hand. Sometimes people come around just to challenge him, and most of the time he can be found here when he has nothing better to do. Phoenix took a seat. Kristoph takes another. Diego stands in silence near the stairway as they wait for their magical man to arrive in silence, and arrive indeed he magically did – in ten minutes.

His guffaw preceded him, laughing slightly at nothing. "Ah, sorry guys, looks like I'm late." Materializing at the stairway is Zak Gramarye. Head covered in a white hat and self covered in a tasteless white suit. Kristoph smiled graciously and inclined his head at the hateful man, who took his seat at the end of the table with all the bumbling grace of an elephant king taking his rightful spot on a tree branch.

"Have you all be waiting long?"

"Only slightly more than half an hour," Phoenix returned sarcastically. He slid a bottle of the grape juice he was sipping over the table, and it knocked against Zak's fist and stopped. "Have some?"

"No thanks – I don't do this toned down crap. Waitress! Something stronger if you please!"

The waitress materialized, and along with her, a couple of warm beers that quickly chilled itself. Then she disappeared the way she came. Zak uncorked a bottle of the thing, whatever it was that he had ordered, and poured it into a glass. He offered it to Kristoph, but Kristoph's nose practically crinkled at the smell of the thing – it strongly resembled the sort of thing you step in all the time in a country pasture – and he declined it with a polite push.

"No thank you. I'll just have the juice."

"Smart choice," Phoenix muttered under his breath from the other end of the table. Zak ignored him and downed the liquid, smacking his lips when half the glass was drained.

"Ah, good stuff, good stuff," He sighed contentedly. "This is what I miss the most about America you know – they've got everything you care to name, even strong stuff like this."

"Your trip to Sicily, I gather it's been satisfactory then?"

"Yeah," He replaced the glass on the table, and poured another glass of the 'strong stuff'. "Black may not be the world's handsomest man, but he can do his job well."

"The tumour in your nose, it's removed then?"

Zak snorted a little, and Kristoph's smile tightened. How dare you...Snort at me? If there's one thing Kristoph can't stand, it's people who don't know how to behave when they should behave well. They are at a meeting, with peers – and if that is not a moment that merits manners, he really doesn't know when is.

"It's gone, that's for sure. I still can't smell a single thing though, and probably not going to for the rest of my life."

"Ah, that explains the..." Kristoph looked pointedly at the glass.

"At least he can breath," Phoenix interjected with a quip. He poured Kristoph a glass of the grape juice he's so fond of too, and Kristoph nursed it, smiling. Yes, it's such a good thing the tumour has been removed.

"Right, right, a good thing." With another sip, the glass went down again, and this time, Zak's brows pulled together to form a bushy V. "Let's not waste anymore time then – I think I've wasted quite enough – and let's get down to business."

Kristoph sipped his grape juice. "Yes, we should. We shan't mince words then – what shall we do about the Cadaverinnis, Gramarye?"

"I need an update on the situation actually. Wright?"

Phoenix nodded. "Bruno is announced to be deceased earlier today – at three and twenty four minutes, to be precise. He's dead, and since his own children are too, it means that the mob automatically goes to Viola Cadaverinni."

"Viola? You mean that...Lady?"

"That's right – Lady V, I believe that's what the associates call her. She's a lady through and through, but she can be pretty ruthless when she wants to be. Soft-spoken, but not someone to be underestimated."

Zak stroked his chin, frowning a little. "She intends to take her grandfather's role then? Not going to pass it down to someone else?"

This time it was Diego who shook his head. "The kitten's going to claw and scratch every step of the way, and if she was a man, I'll call her a man."

_Obviously, you fool. What do you call her then, a she-man?_

The motion brought Zak's attention to his face though, and the scowl got deeper. "What happened to your face, Armando? It looks like a real tiger's gotten a bite out of it."

"It's nothing," He deflected. "Bunch of guys decided to fight dirty."

Zak's frown got deeper, and he gave him a look that promised he would be digging answers out of that later. Kristoph interjected here though.

"As you can see, she fully intends to take over her grandfather's gang. How will you deal with this, Gramarye?"

"Hmm..." The tanned, thick man pondered this for a moment, turning his glass this way and that and staring off into nothing for the answer. "I'm going to wait, I think – see if she's someone that can be pushed down or not."

"I see." Kristoph waits all of ten seconds. Then he righted his glasses, and turning to Armando, he asked. "Mr. Armando? Would you mind asking the waitress to bring down the drink I ordered earlier? It's taking far too long."

Armando hollered up the stairway.

He turned back to Zak Gramarye. "You're going to wait? Whatever for? Isn't this the perfect opportunity to reduce the Cadaverinni's power to ashes?"

"It could be – or it could be the end of us," He retorted.

"How so?"

"The Cadaverinnis are the longest running gang around – the only one that surpasses them is the Kitakis, and even that's been on the decline recently. I don't exaggerate when I say they're the biggest piece of mob around, and if we mess with them the wrong way, it'll be the end of us."

"Not if we work together," Kristoph suggested silkily. "Our gangs combined can easily outmatch them."

"Perhaps, at the expense of many," Armando interrupted. Phoenix nodded.

"As long as Viola is in command of the thing – no matter how poorly she does it – it'll be at the expense of many of our men. Not to mention the police is going to go crazy once the whole circus gets started."

The key word here is 'as long as', of course. She isn't, but Zak wouldn't know that – and none of them planned to inform him. This has no consequence on him, it's something they set up together, and in the end it'll benefit but them. The waitress materialized, carrying the drink that Kristoph ordered. She moved pass Armando, shuffling clumsily – then at the last step, she tripped and fell forwards with a cry – and the drink spilled all over Zak.

"Goddamned it!" He howled, his shirt thoroughly drenched in the yellow beverage. "Are you stupid, woman?"

"D-Da! I'm sorry!"

"Tch." He attempted to wring the drink out of his shrit, to no avail – it's there and it's stuck there for good. "What the hell did you order?" He snapped at Kristoph. "It's not coming out!"

"It won't be coming out easily," Kristoph answered. Phoenix frowned at the stain on Zak's shirt, and they both ignored the smell of the drink.

"It's alright, Zak. You can have a change of clothing when you get home later."

"Tch!" Zak spat again, and he glowered at the waitress. Turning to Diego, he jabbed an angry and agitated finger at the waitress. "Armando – take her out and deal with her for me!"

A muscle in Diego's jaw twitched.

"I don't hit women."

"Well, you do now – go, dammit!"

With a frustrated growl, Armando yanked the whimpering waitress up by the wrist, stomping up the staircase loudly. In the mob, orders are absolute. Even if you don't like them, you still carry them out. Kristoph had the absolute conviction that the waitress wouldn't be harmed though, knowing Armando's ways, and he turned back to Zak with a pleasantly sly smile.

"Calm down, Zak."

"Pah! God, the waitresses these days..."

"Perhaps some good news to calm him down? Phoenix?" He twirled a finger as though magically conjuring a solution to Zak's bad temper in mid-air.

"Right." Wright flicked the deck of cards, palming them and slapping them from one hand to the other. "Some interesting news came in about a week ago, while you were abroad. I hadn't sent it over, since by the time it reached you would have been back anyway. The news we got is this : there's a large shipment of drugs that had recently been taken into the country by the Cadaverinnis, Zak.'

Zak looked up from his shirt, scowling. "And?"

"And if we move, and destroy the Cadaverinnis quickly, we'll have the shipment all to ourselves." Phoenix explained.

"We're dealing with drugs now, Wright?"

Phoenix remained expressionless, tossing the cards from hand to hand. "Times are changing, Zak. The streets are getting more and more crowded with the degenerated. Drugs is where the money is at now, especially with the smuggling ring shot down and the stuff in short supply. The shipment the Cadaverinnis have is at least a ton worth of white, and whoever gets their hands on it can retire on peanuts right there."

"I wasn't aware we needed money," Zak snapped, and Phoenix bowed his head obediently, mimicking the likes of a kicked dog.

The spiky head lowered, whispering softly – so softly he couldn't hear. "You're unaware of a lot of things..."

Kristoph smiled. He knew how the Gramaryes fare, as much as they try to keep their finances under wraps. That's what happens when you do nothing but tree-hugging. Protection and rackets don't rack much, not with the police shutting it down faster than ever. Firearms, drugs...Those are the way to go these days, unless you want to be the laughingstock of the underworld – being the first mob ever to go bankrupt.

"It's still a lot of money, isn't it, Zak? Consider it. If we work together, the shipment can be ours."

"No, hell fucking no." Zak snapped. "I'm not touching drugs – I told you – and Wright, you should know better."

"It's good money," Phoenix insisted stubbornly.

"It's also dirty money – you're ruining kids' life."

"How touching," Kristoph sneered. "A Don with scruples."

"Better than one with none," He shot back.

Touché.

Stalemate, as Kristoph locked eyes with Zak.

"That's your answer? No?"

"No." Zak snapped.

Kristoph hissed, knowing it would come to this but still angry anyway. Zak makes him pissed, to put it simply. Zak can comment on the weather and it'll piss Kristoph off. It's like salt on the wound, it never gets old in that painful way. Phoenix shuffled the deck of cards faster, the blue slipping in and out of each other. Kristoph tapped his fingers on the table, and Armando reappeared at the stairway.

"Armando?" Kristoph called out the moment his feet touched down on the floor, taking out a cigarette. "Do you have a lighter?"

Wordlessly, Armando extracted one and placed it on the table, sliding it over to Kristoph.

"I didn't know you smoke." Zak commented, as Kristoph lit up the cigarette and bit on it, trying his best not to inhale and choke on the smoke. He never smokes. Smoking is like signing your death warrant, and Kristoph harbours a little too much affection for himself to kill himself that way. He dragged it around and flicked it.

"I do now." He returned coldly. Then ignoring it, he swung the topic back into the place.

"The drug shipment would be profitable – are you sure you don't want a piece of it?"

"No, are you deaf, Gavinne?"

Kristoph flicked the lighter cover on and off, on and off, making a whirring clicking noise every time he did. "It shouldn't be too hard..."

"Then you can do it yourself. Take your men - and I know you don't give a damn if they all drop like flies - and go do it yourself. Take on the Cadaverinnis, but count me out."

"You won't reconsider?'

"No."

Kristoph flicked the lighter cover on, and stubbed the cigarette out. The smell of the gasoline all over Zak's shirt stings all of their noses – but Zak wouldn't know – he can't smell, not after the operation.

"Very well. Such a decision, Zak - you should have thought harder." He clicked it. "But it's your decision...As you said. Goodbye, Zak."

He doesn't say another word, doesn't go into his trademark flowery poetry. He watches as Zak's eyes widened, then watches as his own hand flings the lighter forwards with the sort of detachment that you would have thought his arm isn't attached to him. But it is, and he watched, fascinated, as the arm throws the little lighter forwards, and it hits Zak on the shirt. It wouldn't have burned terribly of course, not under normal circumstances – but then Kristoph had arranged that gasoline be poured all over Zak, and now the gasoline strikes back at Zak for daring to try to remove them earlier, burning up and catching combustion within milliseconds.

You remember the yellow drink, yes? You remember how it smelled so terrible, terrible, yes?  
Yes, yes, and gasoline, it is very yellow, and so terribly, terribly...Combustive, no?

Kristoph pushed his chair backwards even as Zak exploded into flames – and maybe the man would have screamed, except that you can't hear anything over the vroom-vroom of the fire. Kristoph closed his eyes, feeling rather ah..Sickened. He really shouldn't be like this, but he isn't used to seeing dead people either – or in this case, a dying person. Not up close. He leaves that to his lackeys, but that's obviously impossible this time. Quietly, he felt a small tap on his shoulder, and opened his eyes to see Phoenix clasping his shoulder.

"...Let's go."

Kristoph nods, and they leave the room. He averts his eyes – doesn't want to see the hated man going down in flames. No one deserves that sort of death, but in this world, people are given many things that they hadn't merit. Zak is but one of these cases - a redundant edge of a cloth that needs to be trimmed before a new suit can be made. They left quickly, and by the time the three of them had returned to the ground floor, Kristoph had formed a quarantine in his head to keep the mental image out. No, he doesn't want to see a burning man. Have you seen a burning man? Don't see a burning man, it's not a pretty sight. It's like watching a chicken barbeque yes? A living chicken. Dancing on coals. No, don't think of that either, you'll be nauseated – just like he is.

He exhaled a shaky breath.

"Well, that's that." He announced. "Zak's gone – congratulations, Phoenix Wright. Or should I call you Don Wright now?"

Surprisingly, Phoenix doesn't smile. And when Kristoph looked out at the door – and the red lights echoing around the room and knowing what kind of vehicles in the city have rotating lights on it, he grimaced. The realization sank in quite well, an imprint of soft sand that's always quick to be cynical. Diego Armando must have done more than just 'beat up' the waitress then - he's always been on Phoenix's side after all. What's so hard about punching in the three numbers with an 'anonymous tip'? Kristoph turned towards Phoenix and clapped lightly, laughing. Amusement danced merrily in his eyes.

So someone's decided to go one step further, take out another gang in a go, is he?

"Well played, Phoenix Wright. Well played."

At this, Phoenix smirked.

"I was always better at poker than you."

Then the three of them weren't saying anything anymore, because the white hats had burst in and were pointing guns at everyone's direction. They're 'well-informed' though, and within five minutes, Kristoph was taken away for the murder of the unidentified man downstairs.

* * *

The Pink Princess ringtone blared out of the red cellphone, and Apollo slammed it down. Bloody hell, it's three in the night.

"Hello?" He mumbled groggily into the phone.

"_Justice!"_

'What is it...?"

"_You had better come early tomorrow morning! We've a case here assigned to you!"_

"Nrrgh. 'kay."

_"I don't care what your excuse is - remember to--"_

" Mokay, --'Bye."

Apollo hung up, slammed the phone shut and went back to sleep.

More burglars to defend. Bah.

* * *

Oh yes, forgot to include this in the previous chapter : Criticism is welcomed. Flames even more so, because you benefit me by making my review count go up. Love a chapter? Hate it? Think my plots are crappy/don't make sense? Send in your mail today!


	3. II : Polynomial

What pun? There you go, Stalker. Profile's OC section's been updated. I'm just glad people are reading this. xD

**One note on Jacques :** I made him before AAI came out, so unfortunately he shares the same name with Jacques Portsman. Not to be confused. I'm not using Portsman however, so it shouldn't be much of a problem. AAI characters are still in a box – hadn't gotten the motivation to play it. It's so..Darned long. The cases I mean.

I'm just happy someone's actually reading it - it sure doesn't make the most interesting plot in the world, but hey, at least it's fun writing in. =x

* * *

_Two : Polynomial_

_-  
_

Someone must have replaced Apollo Justice's head with a boombox.

No, not by sawing it off. Sometime within the night, someone must have dropped a bag of rice or flour onto it, and now it's thudding with that kind of rhythm that you hear on hip hop stations. It goes beep-beep-beep or boop-boop-boop, depending on who's currently talking on the radio (talking mind you, not singing), and depending on what kind of empty cans they've decided to use as their 'creative' expression. Certainly, Apollo decided, while he squinted slightly swollen eyes up at the ceiling, he's not getting enough sleep. He has the dark eye circles to prove it too. He can't see it lying down of course, but if he leans across and looks into the mirror above Trucy's trunk, the one that's been taped together countless times because they keep dropping it, he'll see it.

Just another typical day.

Nothing he can do about that – that's what you get when you're born a lawyer. Apollo dragged himself up, reaching out a hand to whack the alarm clock ringing off it's socks with one hand and massaging the kinks out of his face to get it working. He grimaces while he does this of course, because if he doesn't massage it more, then later that day he won't be able to smile, and you know what that means – his boss will get on his case again. Folding up the towel that doubles up as his blanket, he got up, and stretched.

Then he padded down their makeshift hallway that's made out of cardboard boxes, and into the next room. He doesn't have to go far of course, because there's only two rooms in their apartment, if it can be called that and not a rat hole. It has precisely two rooms and one bathroom. One is the living room, where two secondhand couches pile one side where the both of them sleep, and then there's the other room, where they eat and watch TV while they do it because it's impossible to not meet the TV's eye. It's only 10 x 10 after all.

"Good morning, Polly!" Trucy chirped, the moment he appeared in her line of sight, sniffing at whatever it was she's grilling. Somehow, Trucy always manages to produce food, despite the fact that Apollo almost never had any spare salary for her to buy groceries with, and no fridge for her to stick food in. So he's made a habit of not asking her what the food is...Especially when it's lumpy like this one.

He prodded a finger into the pinkish meat sizzling on the grill. "'Morning, Trucy." Apollo mumbled, frowning at the meat. He really wants to know what that is, but does he?

"Oh come on! Is that how you greet your sister? You look like an upside down clown!"

"Well, good thing I'm not aiming to be one then," He shot back. "Out of curiosity, what meat is that?"

"Chicken, silly!" Trucy stuck a spatula under the chicken (?) and flipped it around, making a sizzling sound where it smacked the sooty, overused black of the grill.

"That doesn't look like chicken." Apollo announced sceptically.

"Yes well, I lied. It's actually the shopkeeper downstairs."

"What!?"

"Oh come on, Polly – I was just joking. It's really chicken – it just looks super red 'cuz it's been supercooled, and all the blood's frozen."

"Oh," He muttered, relieved. He really wouldn't put it pass Trucy to actually make breakfast out of someone – God knows it's always disturbing when she makes dark and sinister comments under her breath about making people disappear. People find it funny, but Apollo just finds it creepy. Then again, many things creep Apollo out.

Like that, for example.

"Trucy, there's a roach on my box."

"Squish it." She muttered irritably, prodding the chicken. Another fresh supply of juice, and it sizzles again. If Apollo is a more disturbing sort of person, he would comment that their breakfast seems to be literally cooked in blood and not oil. Instead, he eyed the cockroach warily.

"I don't like it, Trucy," He complained. "It's sitting on my box – get it off."

Clicking her tongue irritably, Trucy made a grab for her staff, always lying close at hand on the counter next to the grill. She sends it flying over like a javelin, and while it doesn't kill the roach, it sure got close enough that it went scurrying away. Apollo breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down on his cardboard box – which doubles as everything from chair to table for them, depending on occasion.

"I don't know what I'll do without you, Trucy – I really don't."

"You'll go hungry perhaps?" The chicken let out a final mournful wail, and she bundle the thing onto a plate (Sad to say, but they pilfered that one from the dim sum shop a block down, 'borrowing' the plate and then 'forgot' to return the thing. It's a measure of how miserly they are that they prefer to go to jail for a plate than to buy one.) and plopped it in front of Apollo on another bigger cardboard box with a dramatic, magical flourish.

"Thanks Trucy," He grinned weakly, stabbing a fork into the chicken. "You're one in a million."

"I'm magical, that's what!"

She got another fork too, and together, they started jabbing and making holes in the chicken. Trucy ate hers in moderate, appropriate, and magical bites. Apollo choked on his chicken and nearly died. They made conversation.

"Oh yes, just in case you forgot – the call came in for you last night, remember? Something about a job."

"Yeah..." Apollo muttered darkly. His two antennas – his two only real source of vanities – drooped a little as he frowned. They're not gelled up yet, or not a storm in the world would be able to ruffle it. "It sounded like old man Griffoth – and you know what that means. He's going to be frothing at the mouth today, telling me what a danged _good_ job I'm doing."

"Didn't he sound kind of excited yesterday?" She munched out.

"Guess so." Apollo shrugged, not really caring. A lifetime ago, he would be cheering at the thought of receiving another case – but that Apollo has since grown up, hit the age of 21, become his sister's legal guardian, and experience that concoction name and labeled 'Life'. Law was once a means, a way to claw himself out of the meager beginnings that he had, a way to give the both of them a better life. That's a joke now. Law doesn't pay shit, especially when you're serving as a public defender. No one who serves the state makes big bucks, and those prosecutors, always moving about in their flashy cars...Those usually have other ways to pocket their money. If you're not willing to suck up to people, and not willing to change verdicts for green bills, or in his case – let the innocent be charged guilty with a sizable bribe – then you end up like Prosecutor Payne. No money, no hair, no car, no nothing.

Trucy frowned at him. "Are you okay, Polly? You're so gloomy these days."

"Remembered a time when I wasn't gloomy?" He shot back.

"Good point."

They munched.

"It's probably just some dumb burglar or something who got himself arrested. With the election running so near, everyone's ra-ra about banishing evil and all that. Then the election blows over, and the whole 'fight crime, it's good' thing goes out of the window – ripped off like streetside posters."

"Oh Polly," Trucy sighed dramatically – which looked rather silly when one side of her cheek is still working on the chicken at rapid speed. "You're so cynical."

Apollo grunted grumpily, and spooned off the last of the chicken. He swiped at his mouth with some tissue – about the only thing in the house in permanent full supply thanks to his hypochondriac streak – and dusted off his hands, leaving the fork on the table. Trucy does the chores around the houses, you see – that's the only bright side to being the breadwinner around here. Unfortunately though, even that seems to be overshadowed lately, since Trucy makes almost as much as he does in the PD office with her bar magic shows. Apollo doesn't approve of course – a girl wandering up and down town like that on her own can't be good for his heart – but he's resigned himself to it.

They're broke, fact of life.

Apollo spends all his time wormed up on the cardboard boxes, trying to work files that don't make sense out and stretching every penny like someone's elastic rubber band. If Trucy doesn't pitch in with her earnings at the bar – which is sometimes literally more than Apollo's – they'll be flat broke and kicked out of their meager apartment.

Also fact of life.

Sometimes Apollo wished he had thought things out more thoroughly before taking Trucy off with him the moment he hit 21. But then again, Trucy really did missed him – walled out in the orphanage because Apollo had to leave the moment he turned 18 – and had bugged him endlessly about it. He's still broke. They're still broke. And the chicken they eat is still gross and lumpy and pink and utterly revolting, but at least they have each other now.

He leaned down and pecked Trucy on the cheek – if only a light one. Apollo's not a touchy feely kind of person, but then she IS his sister.

"Thanks for the uh...Chicken, Trucy."

"Mhmm. God is great, God is good, he sent you Trucy for these food."

Apollo laughed and ruffled her hair fondly, knowing no one will see how messy it'll be anyway, since it's always covered by that hat in public. He hummed, wandering off the comb and gel his hair up to it's normal spiky standards. Gelling his hair is really his hobby in life now, and it shows how little he has to do that he has resorted to this sort of thing for a hobby. Apollo grabbed the mirror on the trunk earlier and sat down on the couch, pulling his hair up.

First he parted the whole mess of hair he had (It looked frighteningly like Trucy's unless he slicks it back) and into two locks, then he shoved it up. Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he whistled into the mirror.

"_Take that_."

"Apollo! Are you done with your hair? You're going to be late if you don't start cycling soon!"

"I'm fine!"

"The sun's warm! Hurry up, or you'll roast!"

"R-Right! Coming!"

* * *

It's raining homosexual rain.

Okay, technically rain doesn't have a gender, but it's definitely, for the moment – utterly and inexorably gay. Klavier looked up at the sky, so gray and cloudy and gloomy, with the rain, as he mentioned – utterly homosexual. It either comes in big fat drops or as pine needles. Then when you think it's almost over, it comes down in a heavy downpour. Once you pull up your maroon umbrella and Mary Poppins yourself, the rain stops completely, only to rinse and repeat again. Normal people would call this erratic – Klavier just calls it gay.

He picked himself through the leftovers of the building they blew up yesterday – not that anyone here besides him and Zee knows that. The whole things is a mess, now that he's seeing it up close and in the vague light of a gloomy L.A morning. The weather is really going to the bastards. Hasn't stop raining since before spring, and it's still raining mid-April. It's raining now, and it patters softly, the sky's crying for the Medical Center. It used to be a place for healing, a place where doctors tell you you have two months to live, then immediately pat you on your back and tell you it's okay – they have medication that had stretch that two months by two days.

It's a place for faith, if nothing else. A place where you hold hands and pray that sometime within the next minute or so, some Russian smartass is going to come up with a cure for whatever dastardly thing is inflicting you, and yes, that is a good thing – that's faith, and you should always have faith. Klavier doesn't really feel the urge for faith now though.

Let's chalked up all the reasons why he should be as gloomy as the sky, mm? About the same time that halfway across the city Apollo had received the call for him to put his best foot forwards tomorrow, Klavier had received an entirely different call. This one is to inform him that yes, his brother is arrested, and that he should keep himself on his toes in case he's needed to replace his brother. That's all. No additional information, no explanation, nothing. Klavier might as well be an associate, for all the respect they're giving him. Some replacement for his brother. He snorted. You might as well call him a dummy.

Klavier doesn't even know whose murder his brother's in for.

"What was that?"

"Huh?" Klavier twirled a lock of the blonde hair. Nail's looking up at him, clipboard in hand and scribbling furiously into it to chart up everything he's found in the rubble. That's his band mate – one out of three anyway. Nail Colfin, forensic scientist. The blue head bobbed expectantly.

"You were snorting." He said, when Klavier did not respond.

"Ach. Nothing, just thinking."

Nail turned back at the rubble, prodding his granite mess and muttering under his breath, ranting off scientific things like a bullet train. Klavier knew he should probably feel more something, more...Exuberant or something. Klavier Gavinne almost never sets foot on the crime scene, but this once, he does. There's nothing for him to do anyway. If he hangs around the prosecutor office, they'll just point at him more often, whisper more behind their hands. There's nothing for him to do, because he's a prosecutor, and unless he wants to prosecute his brother and taint his own record by giving out the lousiest performance ever, he'd do well to stay away from there. Kristoph said so.

He sighed, kicking at the rubble gloomily.

"Klavier?" Nail snapped irritably, righting his glasses.

"What?"

"Get off my rocks."

"Ach." Klavier moved off his rocks, and Nail started dusting the boulders underneath him. God knows why he needs something like that, but he's a forensics – they operate on an entirely different realm of understanding, even if Nail is one of his band mate. Somewhere down the rubble mess, a rescue team is at work, digging about the remains of the once stately building. "Rescue" seems to be rather a subjective term though. Can you rescue dead people? When you pull people who had been crushed and roasted alive, does it count as rescuing at all, or are you just doing your job?

"Hey, Zee!" Nail slapped at Klavier's leg from where he was squatting, and Klavier budged aside – feeling slightly annoyed. He's completely useless here, being a prosecutor and all. Those don't come in handy until they're finish dusting rocks or whatever, but he's been put on this case, as soon as they got a suspect that is. If they did, he wouldn't be prosecuting it at all – but they don't know that, so Klavier's stuck here 'getting more information' on it when he should be doing all he can to help his brother.

Is Kristoph alright?

Naw, seems like a dumb question. When is Kristoph ever not alright? Knowing him, he's probably talking to the country's best defense attorney even as he's standing around here, looking like a pretty pillar. Maybe he'll even go down onto the battlefield on his own too, and Klavier would definitely attend that. The man used to be known as the coolest in the west – as well as the coldest – would put up the kind of trial you don't see very often. Flawless, precise, icy, just like everything his brother is, Klavier thought with just that tiny tinge of pride and hero-worship.

"Zydaline Zylinder - are you deaf? You need some itching powder to spring over?"

Zee scowled back. He had been squatting beside the deeper part of the holes – smirking down at it and pretending not to be smirking. He's scowling now though, and it's obvious he isn't too pleased to be here so early in the morning. Zee's rarely ever pleased about anything unless it came right out of this month's edition of Playboy or a really showy car showroom, and he's most definitely not pleased when he's at work. Dusting his hands off, the man walked over.

"Guten Morgan, Zee," Klavier raised a hand in greeting. Nail in return pushed the rock aside, and took up a whole handful of some kind of ash.

"Look at this." He told them.

Klavier looked. "Looks like dust to me," he said honestly.

"No, looks more like completely shattered rock foundation to me." Nail snapped irritably, ticking off another column on his list. Klavier shrugged, not seeing the point of this. Science is very wonderful and very exciting and all, but it isn't Klavier's cup of tea. Leave it to scientist and lab assistants like Nail – but count him out – his only job is to take their reports and land it down on someone like a ton of bricks.

"Everything here is kind of you know...Shattered."

"But this thing's been totally crumbled by whatever bomb blew it down."

"Meaning?" Klavier scowled at the dust. "It's a bomb, ja? It blows. Of course things get blown down, it's a fact of life, nein?"

"Meaning it's not a pipe bomb, yeah?" Zee rubbed the top of his head, where his tightly pulled braids slicked backwards. "It's a pro job, obviously. You think an amateur can pull off something like this? Gimme a break."

"Ach, chalk it up on wiki – I didn't know that."

"That's not it," Nail thrust the handful of dust in Klavier's face, causing him to sneeze violently. "It's some kind of...Gunpowder. In large quantities. I don't think it's even available to the general market in the first place, not even moderate underworld stuff. This is some amazing crap, from the looks of it."

'You can't tell?" Klavier frowned at the dust. It sure smelled like the thing you smell when you shoot someone in the head – and he traded a glance with Zee. Zee wasn't the thing that caught his eye though – it was what was beyond his friend's flaming red head. The black, nondescript car that pulled up beside the road. He recognized those sort of cars – when you've been hanging around the sort of people who drive them, you learn to recognize them in the blink of an eye. You see them for what they are – not anonymity – but what they really are. Quiet engines, specially customized to make the least amount of possible sounds. A name plate that's often several shade newer than the rest of the car. The kind of car that can blend into your subconscious, like white noise.

"I need some lab equipment...Bah! Why did they send me out on footwork? My algae and I can fare much better in the lab than out here..."

"Come on...You don't need a lab for that..."

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Klavier pushed up from the broken pillar he had been leaning on. Someone shouted 'Hey!' after him, but he's switched it off, narrowing his power of concentration onto the car and only the car. For all he knows, this could be someone here to shoot him. Paranoid, he knows, but in this world, paranoia is the medication that will extend your life. If you're not paranoid enough, you'll be sleeping with fishes before you know it, and it's with a cautious step that he walks up to the car. Surely they won't shoot him in public?

When the window rolled down though, he saw the man in there, and grinned a smile of relief.

"Mr. LeTouse – it's good to see you." He greeted one of his brother's right hand men warmly. The man nodded at him, though the grim set of the jaw doesn't waver.

"Mr. Gavinne. I think you had better come with us to the detention center."

Klavier frowned. "Someone is giving my brother trouble?"

"I wouldn't say so sir – I would say your brother's giving a lot of people trouble."

The blonde grinned. That didn't sound too good – and is it sinful that he's happier for the fact that he gets a little in on the action than he is at the prospect of helping his brother? But he's just a kid of course, don't fault him. He's still at that age, still wants his fun and drunken joyrides and fast action. He nodded once at the big man, and the door opened for him. He got in, and then the black anonymous car is driving off again towards the detention center.

* * *

Apollo slammed the file down on his desk so hard that the desk shook like a maraca. Certainly it made that rat-a-tat-tat noise, if only because all the files stacked up on one side of it slanted to one side, a paper version of the Tower of Pisa. He hissed when the papers shuffled rebelliously at this sort of treatment from their masters and made a papery attempt to escape the country of his desk, and lunged forward just in time to save all his files from toppling down onto the floor.

He needs. A bigger. Desk, dammit.

Apollo shoved the paperwork back onto the table and grimaced at the state his desk is in. Apollo's a neat sort of person – he's a Type A, and he needs everything to be careful compartments of four and four inches for him to be in his happy place. But circumstances are always there to thwart him, both at home and outside of his house. There's no place for anything at all in their apartment, much less space to be neat with – but at work is even worse. His small, generic sized desk isn't enough for the work that just keeps piling and piling. And because Apollo has garnered himself a reputation as a public defender with an astoundingly high acquittal rate in comparison to others – at 82%, according to his meticulous calculations – he's gotten himself signed up for more and more work, and the work, as they say, snowballs.

More work than he can finish at least, and when the senior P.D walked in half an hour later, Apollo was already elbow-deep in paperwork, irritable and feeling like the common secretary.

"Justice!" He announced gleefully, rubbing his hands together. Apollo looked up from the form he was copying and scowled. He knows that look – Grifforth has found an apple ripe enough to pick, and he's about to pick it. "There you are my boy – been looking up and down for you all day long!"

_Considering that you just stepped out of the elevator, that seems, rather doubtful, don't you think?_

Instead, he said. "Is that so, sir? I'm sorry to trouble you."

Grifforth beamed at him. "Such a polite boy, such a nice boy...Ho-ho! I can see why the seniors are so fond of you, my boy! Such good manners!"

Apollo sighed, putting down his paperwork and looked into the man's indiscreetly gleaming eyes.

"Is that something I can do for you, Mr. Grifforth?"

The man pounced at the opportunity with all the grace of a fat cat. "Why, of course! But I wouldn't dream of troubling you, my boy – just look at your table! I can tell you are a man of many things, but a man of leisure is not one of those."

So why are you troubling me if you can see that?

Apollo clenched his jaw in irritation. Sometimes, he wonders, just briefly, exactly what the punishment would be if he snapped back at these guys and launch one of his remarks at them. But he doesn't, because he's Apollo Justice. He's not a bigshot lawyer in a bigshot firm, and if he loses this job, or make too many enemies, then he's literally screwed. He smiled at the man.

"I'm not particularly busy sir. If there's anything I can take off your hands at all, I'll only be glad to help."

There you go. A perfect textbook answer. The moment pasts, and some part of Apollo shrivels a little more, and he curses himself for being a coward.

"Oh-ho! Well, well...Youths these days! Always so eager to learn. As it happens, I do have a job, yes, my boy – I do! And it's a brilliant opportunity, one that doesn't come very often. If you do it well, you'll be the first to shoot to stardom! And then we'll all be watching you own your own firm, eh?"

He slaps Apollo on the back, white moustache quivering a little in laughter as he laughs at his own joke. Apollo manages a smile too, even though inside, he's going 'And why don't you do it then, if the benefits are so great?'

"An intriguing prospect, sir."

"That's right, that's right!" Grifforth snapped a finger at his secretary, whom as always, trailed after him in dejected misery. "Nichols! Go get me the Gavinne file, and for the love of God, Penny – don't spill anything on it!"

"I never..." She muttered under her breath, before turning off to fetch the file, light brown hair glinting almost angrily. Grifforth shook his head at her disappearing figure.

"Goodness, the secretaries they assign us these days..."

"You're the one who always spill coffee on your files, not her." Apollo growled. The old man's head whipped around, looking rather alarmed – as though he's looking at an Apollo who had dyed his hair blonde and grew it to shoulder length.

'Eh, what was that, son!?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Eh-Eh. Whispering is bad now boy – if you want to say something, say it out!"

"Yes, sir. I'm fine, sir." Apollo mouthed, reciting a well beaten line. Grifforth nodded appreciatively, like he had just turned back from said anomaly back to the little, slightly below average height, easily bullied lawyer. Penny Nichols reappeared, and she handed a thick bundle of files to Grifforth. He complains under his breath about how untidy it was, before handing it over to Apollo.

'That's the job I have for you. It's a really high-profile one, and I can't think of a better chance for you to stand to glory."

Apollo said nothing, opening the file and looking into it, There's the case summary, and then there's the picture of the defendant stacked there, pinned with a tiny paper clip. It's of a good-looking blonde man, and if he's a lady, he would probably stack a whole lot of adjectives along the line of handsome or beautiful or chiseled or whatever onto him. As he isn't, the only thing that he noted was that Kristoph Gavinne, the defendant, seemed to be charged with the crime of murdering a man. First degree homicide and...

"He looks like he can afford a lot better than a public defender," Apollo commented, snapping the file shut. That got him a disappointed gleam from Grifforth – he knew the man's dying to have Apollo tell him more. Anything would do, gossip, or just hints as to how the younger man does his job and do it so well.

"Well, yes," He said mournfully, sounding for all the world like he's saying 'Oh no, he's departed.' "That man is Kristoph Gavinne. I'm sure you've heard of him?"

Apollo hadn't.

Grifforth looked like he had just announced himself the love child of a passion fruit and an envelope. "But he's Kristoph Gavinne! You can't have not heard of him!"

"No sir, I'm afraid I haven't." And what does it matter anyway? He's a defendant. Maybe he's innocent, and maybe he's in the wrong – it makes no difference to Apollo. He might have once worshiped lawyers that had held truth and justice up in the air, but Apollo is just that slightest bit more materialistic than them. Truth and justice are important – but so is money too. And he can't lose his job – remember that like the commandments.

"Humph. Kids these days." Grifforth folded his arms, and leaned against the next cubicle, clearing his throat and preparing himself for a long long speech."Now, you can call me a reigning experts on these matters. In the P.D office, few are matched with me in their knowledge, don't you agree?"

"Yes sir. I'm fine with anything you say."

"Right well – the man you're looking at is Kristoph Gavinne. Quite the history, quite the history. He used to be a defense attorney you know, remembered him very well. He's one cool customer, colder than an ice pick and far more dangerous to be up against. Sadly – and this is sad, dear boy, never fall down this path of dark disgrace, because it'll be the end of you – he got into a bad crowd. He started taking jobs from the mob. They pay very well for people like him you know, people who can get your men out like magic."

Grifforth snapped his gnarly fingers in front of Apollo's impassive face.

"That's when he got really successful. Twice as rich as all of us put together – back when he was running with Zak Gramarye. (The mobster, son! You can't not have heard of him! For good grace my boy, what shell have you been living under!?) But then one day he just stopped – stopped everything. Stopped being a defense attorney, and stopped working for Gramarye. Instead, he took a small group of dissatisfied men from Zak, and in seven years, built from scratch a sheer empire."

"That's amazing," Apollo commented. Seven years really isn't much after all. In seven years, he certainly hadn't learned a single thing – though he was in school, so that's pardonable. "Now he runs his own gang?"

"That's right! And they're definitely a lot bigger than just your average chain and saw gang. He's an empire – a sheer empire! Never seen a man like that. If only I..."

"Are you saying you would like to be a mobster too, Mr. Grifforth?" He pounced, just because he couldn't resist needling the irritating man.

"No, no, of course not – goodness gracious, no. I'm just saying it takes a business mind to admire a business mind, that's all. Maybe you'll understand someday, my boy. Someday - Hah!"

"I hope so, sir."

Grifforth seem lost in his own dream fantasies as he patted Apollo on the shoulder. "There you go – that's the job I have for you. If you can get him acquitted despite everything, you'll be a legend in the P.D office – the first kid to get a mobster like that acquitted. You'll be getting the Defender's Paladin Award by the end of the year – trust me on this one."

_And if I fail, naturally, I will be the greatest laughing stock around – the man who had actually dared to take the case of a blatantly guilty mobster...And fail._

"You still haven't told me why he asked for a P.D, sir."

"Ah, that, was it? Why don't you go ask him? He's right in the detention center after all. Maybe you can – cycle there, eh? Eh-heh-heh-heh!" Cackling manically like a certain goat in myth, Grifforth bounded off like said animal, Nichols trailing after him into their offices. Apollo waited until Grifforth disappeared into the elevator and the door shut, before slamming the file down onto the table. He watched as the Tower of Pisa disintegrates completely into Lake Paper, and glared at it so hard his antennas shook.

_Keep positive, Polly._

Day in day out. It's the same kind of shit.

_Smile, Polly! I'll make that smile disappear with magic, okay?_

Oh goodness no, boy. That's not how you do these things – maybe one day you'll get it eh? Eh-heh-heh-heh!

_So keep positive, Polly! It'll all be okay tomorrow, 'right?_

...Cross your fingers and smile.

Quietly, Apollo knelt down and started picking up the papers.

* * *

"Brother, come here – I need to feel your forehead."

"Klavier, if you do not take your infected palm off my forehead, I will shoot you."

Klavier pulled his hand off off Kristoph's forehead and chuckled. "You don't have a gun with you here anyway."

"No?"

"Nein...I think."

"Reconsider, Klavier."

Klavier snorted and fell back onto his chair, tilting it backwards on two legs. He looked at the glass – but he's looking out of the same side as Kristoph. People working under the state have privileges that way, and he rocked the chair back and forth just to annoy his brother a little bit more. And anyway, what kind of mobster acts like his brother does sometimes anyway? He's...Knitting. Knitting, for God's sake! Kristoph had ordered that his sewing kit be shipped in, and now he's right there, knitting.

Klavier's heard of prisoners that are allowed to take pencils in because they won't talk otherwise, but he's never heard of knitting. Guess you see a new kind of boss everyday. When he got bored of listening to the rhythm of Kristoph's...Needles, or whatever, knocking at each other, he took it away from his brother. Kristoph looked up at him irritably.

"I don't need to tell you what I think of that kind of behaviour, Klavier."

"I don't need to tell you what I think of what you think either, ja?" He pulled his chair up closer to his brothers, and leaned forward to stare with what he hoped was an appropriately serious sort of glare. All it did was crack his brother up though, and he chuckled merrily.

"Stop it, that ridiculous expression of seriousness on your face is tickling me."

"Ach." Klavier shook his head firmly. "Now wait just a second, Kristoph – you can't slip by me like that."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you ask for that public defender?" He gnashed out before his brother could pounce on him with those famed tactics of evasions again. "I've only asked that question a hundred times, and you've only dodged it. Well, no more. Answer me, ja? There's only what, half a hundred thousand attorneys out there, and you had to pick the ones most likely to land you in jail? What, did someone attacked our piggy bank while I wasn't looking?"

"What a depraved individual, if such exists." Kristoph commented with an amused smile.

"Ach." He scowled at Kristoph's evasive answer again. Sometimes his brother's resemblance to an eel is uncanny. You can never get him to stop wiggling – not unless you pin him through the midsection anyway. "Answer me dammit, can't you stop playing this sidestepping game for five minutes in your life? If you get convicted, you realize that Zak Gramarye is going to seize the opportunity to take us all out, don't you?"

Kristoph smiled – but this time it's a cold, chilly smile. He's ready to divulge information, though in his own Kristophian way of course. Dangle the carrot. Here donkey, donkey – make an ass of yourself. "The prosecutor's office has told you nothing then?" He mocked.

"I haven't asked them for anything."

"They've been hiding things from you, you mean."

"That's not it. I just never asked for it, is all. I presumed that you would have yourself in good hands, but it seems I presume too much and presume too wrongly."

"Ah. Then you don't know whose murder I've been charged with then."

Klavier glowered. "Nein, whose?'

"Zak Gramarye."

Klavier nearly fell of his chair in shock. One minute passed, and the atmosphere is so thick with silence that you can almost hear the guards' footsteps pounding off far far in the distance. When he recovered sufficiently, he blinked at Kristoph, fingering his jaw just to make sure it isn't open, or if it had hit the floor with a thunk.

"Wha-ZAK? Zak's the one you kil—I mean, got accused of?"

"Mm, you do not know then."

"Of course I don't know! I haven't asked, and no one's volunteered!"

Kristoph arched a sky trimmed eyebrow. "Ah. Your friend hadn't celebrated it then?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing," His brother replied quickly, quirking a smile. "Yes, it's Zak Gramarye that I've been accused of. He caught fire and was burned to death at the Borscht Bowl Club last night, and unfortunately, - Phoenix Wright, Diego Armando and I were there. An unfortunate incident. I might not be able to attend the funeral, but I'll be sure to send a nice letter saying I approve of it."

Klavier scowled – something didn't match up here, smelt fishy – and he didn't believe those 'slip of tongues' of his brothers' They reek like a trail of dirty undergarments.

Ignoring the jab against Zak Gramarye, he snipped. "Why are you the only one arrested then? The other two – they should be here too, ja?"

"Unfortunately for me, they were the ones who had given the 'tip'. So naturally they have been bailed out, pending further investigation."

"You mean they set you up?" Klavier voiced, incredulous. His brother should be freaking piss – God knows he would be – except Kristoph is never verbally outraged. He just smiles that little smile of his.

"Don't worry about it, Klavier. I would do the same to them in a thrice – they just got there faster than I did, is all. As long as some things remain pristine...They may do as they please. It isn't like I'm going to jail."

"That's another thing!" Klavier snapped angrily – suddenly reminded of what he's here to bug him about in the first place. "We're still on square one, Kristoph. Why did you ask for that public defender? It would have made more sense if you had asked for one of our men, ja? Isn't that why you started the firm for Lee and Constans? To make a firm to bail out all of our guys that got arrested? Now that you're the one who got arrested, what, you're suddenly too good for the firm you set up?"

"Klavier..." Kristoph sighed like he was talking to the worse fool in the universe – and Klavier hated that condescending look on his face as he righted his glasses. "Exactly how many lawyers did you mention walk the streets of L.A again?"

Klavier threw up his hands in the air. Here we go again – more trick questions. Turn the vine around and watch as people trip on it. They might be in a gang, he might be the leader of one big piece of shit, but it doesn't change nothing. "I don't know! Half ten thousand? Are we talking about employed ones or not?"

"Hmm. A good estimate would be about five thousand just for the vicinity then. Now out of these, how many do you think are going to step out to defend me?" He asked him.

Klavier clicked his tongue irritably. "Gee, I don't know. Maybe I'll run out of here and run a survey for you? Here folks, take this one million dollars and stand in court for a day. I'll even send out leaflets - Keine Ursache! _Don't mention it!_"

His brother rolled his eyes daintily – if that's even possible. "Sorgenkind_._..Why must you always be such a _problem child_?"

"I'm not being the problem here, you are!" Klavier got up to stamp around the place, just to put some oomph into the statement. His men are out there, running about like headless chicken thinking that their boss is suicidal, and there is his brother – seemingly hellbent to get himself convicted. "Do you have any idea how worried we all – they all are?"

"Ah-ah – don't draw on my heartstrings now. The only thing they're worried about is their livelihood. I'll be surprised if some of them hasn't already applied on Phoenix's immigration list. Now, you still haven't answer me. How many do you think are going to step out to defend me? And sit down, Klavier."

Klavier sat, like a good dog. He folded his arms and glared at his brother though. "I'll put it on three thousand. Maybe four. Depending on what kind of money you pay, ja?"

"Ah, but there you are wrong, Klavier. The amount of attorneys in this city that will represent me at the moment is unfortunately stuck at four – as far as I know."

"Four? You must be stingier than you look, brother."

Kristoph chuckled, but his humour was dark when he spoke again. "No, Klavier. The thing is, you've forgotten to take into consideration this : Who am I?"

"Kristoph Gavinne, class-A bitch," Klavier replied automatically.

Kristoph allowed that to slide. "No, I'm Kristoph Gavinne, the current head of an entire mob. And now, I stand defendant to the charge of first degree murder. If someone stands up to defend me, and fail – they will be punished...Severely, shall we say, by the rest of the gang. Not all the money in the world can exorcise fear. If they represent me, and I am charged, then I'm sorry to say, but that's it – they're doom. Any one of our more...Spirited members will catch them off a corner and finish them off. No lawyer in their right mind will take such a risk, not unless they're confident they can win – which they cannot be."

That thought hadn't occurred to Klavier. It struck him a little, that despite how arrogant he was, his brother does indeed know more than he does. That seems to hit too close to home though, and he shrugged it off carelessly.

"There must be some, ja?"

"None that have accepted, that's for sure."

'So who's the four?"

"Hmm.." Kristoph raised four fingers into the air, and stared off dreamily like they were discussing their holiday in Milan and not which defense attorney is acting for Kristoph. "There's Liam Lee and Jacques Constans – as you pointed out. They haven't contacted me, but then these things, it is I who should contact them, no? I'm sure they will accept the moment I request of it. That's two."

Klavier nodded, fingering his brother's knitted mess with a frown.

"Then of course, there is the obvious solution. I represent myself. I fortunately haven't turn in my badge yet, and while not exactly shiny anymore, it'll function – don't you think?" Klavier nodded absentmindedly, and Kristoph continued. "But I digress. I have not been in the courtroom for a long time now, and I don't wish to return to the shouting matches that so often pollute one. So there is one last option left of course – throwing it to the P.D hounds."

At this, Klavier snorted, letting go of the string of yarn that he had disentangled and twisted around his forefinger. "If all the lawyers in the city quake at the mention of your case, what makes you think they will accept?"

"Oh, they will, of course. They'll push it around, but eventually, someone will come forth. It is amusing, if nothing else."

"And that's why you're doing this? Because it's amusing?"

Kristoph chuckled merrily. "Why not, Klavier? Why not? It's amusing, isn't it? Watching them pass it up and down like an unwanted chain of garlic. I'm so depressed, being backstabbed and all. Don't you think I must have some entertainment at once?"

"You don't look too depressed to me." Klavier retorted. "But this is your idea of fun, ja? You always did have weird standards."

His brother merely smiled, and Klavier was about to open his mouth and ask him exactly why he had finished Zak Gramarye off – hypothetically speaking of course, you never know how the walls have ears – when the door twisted apart.

Klavier turned around, and watched as two ridiculously spiked locks of hair preceded a man in a blood-red suit. He frowned. He's seen him before of course – it's hard not to when you work for the state and move in and out the same offices all the time to get the same papers approved of – but he didn't remember requesting for papers to be sent to him.

"I ah..." The man looked into the room, standing with the door slightly ajar and a confused frown on his forehead. "I'm sorry, am I intruding?"

"Yes," Klavier snapped bluntly. "Ja, you are actually."

"Oh uh, excuse me then, I need--"

"-To intrude, ja?" He raised an arrogant eyebrow at the man. He couldn't resist needling the man – he just looked like those people who get nervous breakdowns when you shoot them full of sarcastic comments – and he's just that little bit annoyed that he had chosen to intrude on him and his brother. "You need to intrude, that is it, ja?"

At this, the corners of the man's mouth tightened just a little, and he looked from one to the other. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to intrude anyway." He moved into the room, and Klavier could see his arms were heavily laden with files. He immediately pegged the man – without even knowing his name – into the Type A category. Or maybe type S – S for secretary. They're those 'secretarial' lawyers who go into courtrooms looking like they're stepping onto a battlefield – with paper as their ammo. Laden on both arms like a camel with it's cargo, they never make an opening statement without consulting the law textbook. Annoying as hell, and Klavier doesn't need lengthy introductions to know what this guy is.

"Which one of you is Mr. Kristoph Gavinne?" The man asked. Kristoph smiled, taking on the beatific expression of a man you wouldn't accuse of cracking apart an egg, never mind beating a person to death with it.

"I am actually."

"R-Right." The man frowned some more, and is clearly at a loss for words. Then he shook himself and was all business again. "I'm from the P.D department sir, and I'm there to consult you for your case – KP-47, wasn't it?"

At this Klavier got up, folding both arms with the world's most arrogant sneer on his face. "Wait, what?"

The man narrowed his eyes back defiantly. It takes all of one point five seconds for them to not like each other.

"Sir, I'm dealing with a case here. Besides – visitors aren't allowed here – you're supposed to be in the other compartment...Which you would know if you read the sign," He added under his breath.

"Goodness."

"Yes," He plowed on, nonplussed. "So if I were you, I'll do something – like obey the rules – and move to the next room...With all due respect of course."

"Really? What makes you extra special then? You don't look like anything more than a paper boy."

At this, anger flash on the other man's face, and his cheeks reddened slightly in frustration. "I have all the right in the world to be here!"

"Because you clean the room?"

"I happen to be the attorney in charge of the case – I can go wherever I please!"

At this, Klavier's expression turned from annoyed to incredulous.

"Wait – _you're_ the attorney in charge of this case?"

* * *

Bloody...Little...

Apollo owns a good punching arm, and at the moment, he's not averse to the idea of applying [ONE] forearm to [ONE] face, the way he rightfully should. The thing is – Apollo really isn't a mean person normally. He's a friendly person, even if he's the only one who says it's so. It's not like he has any other friends outside of work anyway, and even those can be numbered with one hand and maybe three fingers. It's just that Apollo is caught in between expectations and reality.

By rights, he should be pathetic, an orphaned kid who barely scraped pass his college and law school years with part time jobs and studying 'til even the fireflies got bored of circling around his window. By rights he should be the defending version of Prosecutor Payne – except he isn't. He wins his cases, perhaps in a combination of luck and sheer persistence – no one knows, but he does it anyway, and currently, Apollo will tell you this and tell you this with just the slightest hint of pride : He's got the highest acquittal rate in the entire P.D department, short of maybe one or two seniors.

But he's also a mismatch – he just doesn't fit the idea of a good attorney. He's easily flustered, easily nervous – and about the only time he can actually let his sarcasm surface long enough to show is when he's riled up – like he is now – or facing people who have no respect for the orderly routine of life – also like now. Apollo just isn't...Glamorous enough. He doesn't have that 'it' factor. Doesn't wear leather to work like some prosecutor he's heard down in the P.O. Doesn't wear cravats, isn't flashy, isn't elegant...Apollo just looks like someone's secretary, in short. And because of that – people like him, like this...Annoying little prick, just decide within one minute of meeting him that they can step all over him and leave him looking like someone's pavement behind.

"I am, actually." Apollo announced to the man, just a touch snide. Hey, at least he understood what the posse comitatus is, which is more than could be said for this man – who looked like he should be putting on a stage show, not dancing attendance to the detention center.

"Ach....This is - unsagbar blöd! _ Unutterably stupid _! Who in their right mind put you in charge of the case!?"

Apollo stretched his lips into a respectful smile. "That would be Mr. Grifforth. Senior P.D, room 1543, 13th floor. Perhaps you would like to file your report...At his office?"

A not so subtle remark. Would you like to get out, sir? Here's the door.

"Oh no you don't." The man brace an arm when Apollo tried to move pass him to consult the mob boss. The prospect of meeting a boss earlier had made him slightly nervous – you hear things about the L.A underworld after all, it's no slow-simmer soup – but now he's emboldened by sheer anger from the man. Not to mention the man didn't look so intimidating. He looked like one of those fancy pants lawyers down in Trite and Boreux.

"Would you please..." Apollo stuck all his files under one arm and slapped at the outstretched purple tentacle. "MOVE?" He looked at the other man for help, but all he's doing is smiling this little amused smile of his.

"Nein, actually – I think not. You'll explain to me, I'm afraid – exactly how you came to get the job. Surely you can't be the best the P.D have to offer?"

"We don't do status here – just because you have buckets of money, doesn't mean we have to pull out our best monkey from behind our ears!" He snapped back. Screw courtesy – if he got sue, hey! Apollo's got a free defense attorney in mind. A slow smile started working it's way up the blonde man's face, though he clamped it down a moment later and announced, all matters of seriousness, with a grim face :

"I don't think you're up to the job."

Wow, that was blunt. Anymore blunter, and it wouldn't even hurt.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mr..."

"Gavinne. That would be Gavinne. I'm his--" He jerked a thumb in Apollo's case's direction. "-Brother. I'm his brother, ja?"

"Excellent. I will keep in mind your apparent confidence for me, Mr. Gavinne. Now if you'll excuse me, I need some information regarding the case."

"Exactly how many cases have you taken?" The man interrupted him with a scowl. "One?"

"Plenty, actually." Apollo shot right back.

"Ach, that explains it. Quantity doesn't substitute quality, ja? Just because you've sat in a lot doesn't mean you're good."

"Well! Good thing I have both quantity and quality then, isn't that right, Mr. Gavinne?"

The man's mouth tightened, and he turned back to glower at his brother. "See? Do you see? Do you see why I told you you should have put a line down for Lee to come in? You leave it to the state and this is what they give you – one step short of no attorney at all."

Kristoph Gavinne shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less if the state gave him a vase of flowers as an attorney. "Which is why I told you – let things run it's course. We will see. Worse thing comes to worse, I will step down myself."

Apollo cleared his throat loudly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gavinne – but that's impossible. You can't represent yourself like that."

The man flashed him a friendly – or at least comparatively friendlier smile, compared to some people – smile, showing an envious blend of good genes to Apollo. "Oh, I can actually. I used to be an attorney myself."

"Oh."

Yes, Mr. Grifforth did mention something about that. He had no idea that he can still remember the ropes though – and the more Apollo looked at the way he's smiling pleasantly, the more Apollo doubted Grifforth's source of information. If this is a mob boss...What kind of mob boss smiles like that, for goodness' sake?

The two rattled off angrily in some foreign language. Kristoph Gavinne was pointedly refuting whatever was in the other one's angry barrage, and the other is just as adamant...About whatever. Apollo opened up and consulted his files in the hopes that some gem of knowledge will shine through the thing and illuminate their conversation like a lamp. Shiny, shiny, shiny – maybe that'll help them notice the man in the room that hasn't left yet, mm? Notice that Apollo isn't invisible? No point whining though.

You hate your job? There's a help group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar.

"You realize that I am going to have to put Prosecutor Payne on this, ja?" Gavinne announced suddenly, reverting back to English. He looked rather like a rattlesnake. Not that Apollo's ever seen a rattlesnake, but if it rattles half as much as it's name does, then it definitely looks like Gavinne.

"Das ist nicht nötig. Don't you think it'll be more amusing to see him face off against vonKarma?"

"No it isn't! Are you dying to taste the air inside of a prison, brother?"

"Not really. I just thought it'll be ah...More fun this way."

'More fun for who?"

Back and forth, back and forth. They're going nowhere fast, if they're going anywhere at all – and at last Apollo slammed his folder shut with a loud bang. It's certainly more guts than he's shown in the P.D department, but then neither of these are capable of removing his job from him.

"Excuse me, sirs. I happen to be visible."

The purple one blinked at him.

"Ja, I can see that – though I wish you were otherwise."

The other one just smiled.

"Look," Apollo growled. "I'm not asking you for your life benefits. I'm asking you for information – which I will need if I'm going to win this case."

'Which you also won't need, if I remove you from the case."

"You can't remove me from the case – there's no one else who's willing to take it!" Apollo shouted. That at least seemed to got through the man's delusional fog, because he blinked up at him stupidly – like an eggplant. Yes, exactly like one – he chose his colour well.

"Isn't that clear enough for you?" Apollo jabbed a finger in Kristoph Gavinne's direction. "No one wants his case – they avoid it like it's a fifty kilo brick falling from the fiftieth floor at their heads. I'm the only one who's willing to take it so far, so unless you can come up with a better alternative or ask your brother to go down to court like a man no one wants to defend – a guilty man – then by all means, remove me from the case."

The man growled – but Apollo's won this round.

"And besides, you have no authority to say either way."

At this though, the smirk returned. "Nein? I happen to be a prosecutor – and I happen to have the ear of the Senior ."

Apollo was nonplussed for a moment. A little startled, a little shock – though he hid all reaction from his face. He doesn't need another thing for this man to gloat over. He'd never imagine that the man was a prosecutor, but then again, with some of the prosecutor's he's come across, he supposed that isn't such a stretch of the imagination.

"Must be why I felt such respect for you the moment I laid eyes on you...Sir."

The man hissed. "That's it. There's got to be some other guy who can be on the job – some other guy that can actually do it."

"What makes you so sure I can't?"

"Are you kidding? Look at yourself! You don't look like you can defend a girl against a candy thief – and my brother is-- my brother is who he is." He glowered at Apollo, but this time, he had an answer all ready and round for him.

"Arbor dum crescit; lignum cum crescere nescit." Apollo retorted.

_A tree while it grows, wood when it cannot grow._

The man's eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm taking you off the case."

"Then by all means, go – and may the force be with you." Apollo snapped back.

The man growled, and then he was stomping out – designer boots clocking clicks the way a heavy grandfather clock would. He opened the door, disappeared pass it, and then slammed it shut violently, all the way muttering furiously about how the state's out to get his brother after all, and why didn't he foresee this, and then there's a lot of swearing in that foreign language of theirs.

By the time the man fully disappeared, Apollo was so angry that he forgot what he was here for – glaring after the man's closed door like it was an eggplant he severely needed to smash. He hated people like these. Not so much as the man himself but everything he's come to represent. A boss who overlooks him on accident. Coffee spilled on his paperwork. Spikes. People who tell him to his face he shouldn't be in this field. People who don't tell him to his face that he shouldn't be in this field. The dead potted plant in the corner. Everything.

"Don't blame him...Mr. Justice, was it?"

Apollo turned around to face the man he's assigned to. He's still smiling at him, a pleasant soft smile that made Apollo both comfortable around him – like he wanted to pull up his chair beside him and tell him his life's story from Day One – and uncomfortable at the same time. Just that tiny inch to the right of his mouth, where it sometimes sinks – not quite like a dimple.

"I have no right to judge him, Mr. Gavinne."

"Ah, but you do – that's the thing, isn't it?"

"I'm human, Mr. Gavinne." Apollo retorted. "I can't help judging."

He righted his glasses and smiled. "Yes, but don't judge him too harshly. He's just worried about me...And what happens to our little group if I am gone, that's all."

"Doesn't give him the right to act like a jerk..."

"I'll pretend I turned temporarily deaf to your loud internal monologues, Mr. Justice."

Apollo coughed and blushed to the hairlines, and the man pointed at the chair his brother had just vacated. "Now, I believe you were about to ask me some questions concerning the case...?'

"I – r-right. Of course." Apollo opened his file, and retrieved his lists of questions to asked. He's got it divided into three categories – will be answered, probably won't, and additional things that might help him gain an advantage in the trial tomorrow. He pulled up the chair and folded himself neatly into it, placing all his files on the table in neat stacks and opened up his small brown notebook to write down everything Kristoph Gavinne says.

And say he does – though Apollo had no doubt that he did indeed murder the man. Apollo's had time to come to terms with the whole defend-the-innocent thing however. He's accepted that this is real life, and not every defendant you place in front of him is innocent. It doesn't mean he can skim on the milk just because they're guilty. After all, the court works like a machine – the defense defends, and the prosecution prosecutes, it's as simple as that. If the prosecution cannot prove a guilty man guilty, who is he to correct them?

Besides. His livelihood depended on it. Pull one too many stunts, and you'll find yourself flat on your back on the streets, especially when he doesn't have pedigree and rich and famous parents to back it up.

So he extracted all the information he could from Kristoph Gavinne, though God knows that wasn't much. The man knew not to lie outright though, because lies are often the easiest to disprove. Rather, he simply worked around the truth, sidestepping it with the grace of a dancer – and Apollo believes that he's a lawyer. None but one can be so skilled to dance around that beautiful gem called truth.

Within an hour, he was done – things progressed so much faster without an intruding blonde asshole – and he packed up his stuff. Nodded once at Kristoph Gavinne, and then he was out of the door, brain riddled with thoughts as to how it's going to play out tomorrow. For once, he's actually just the slightest bit thankful that the other man said he's going to replace the prosecution with Payne – that should increase his chance of winning, not that he particularly felt like defending such a blatantly guilty man. But life's life, a dice is a dice no matter which way you look at it, and he's going to go out there and throw everything out into the court – if only because he rather liked the man. At least Kristoph Gavinne smiles at him. The last time someone other than Trucy did was a long time ago.

As Apollo's feet went clicking down the hallway however, Kristoph started drumming his fingers on the table. The guard came in, but he doesn't rush Kristoph – Kristoph can stay in there until he rots, and no one would dare tell him to do otherwise. He cocked a finger in the officer's direction, and he immediately rushed forward – a butler always ready to please.

"Hand me your phone please."

The phone was handed over without a word of protest.

Kristoph punched in LeTouse's number, and the man picked up exactly eight rings later – just a tiny code amongst them.

"_Yes?"_

"LeTouse," Kristoph announced himself silkily. That slippery voice needed no introduction. "I mentioned, did I not? Put Klavier in charge of everything while I am gone. If he falters, pull him up. Also..That other matter..."

_'Of course, boss. Looking into it."_

"Excellent."

"_If I may ask, boss – what do you have planned?"_

"Nothing. At least not now. But it's always safer to have more pawns you can work with on your side, no?"

"_Alright. I'll get to it immediately."_

"Good. Go."

LeTouse hung up, and Kristoph returned the phone to the man.

Then he started chuckling.


	4. III : Welcome to the circus

**[Insert ridiculous threats here about how I am not going to upload another chapter forever and ever unless you review.]**

* * *

_Three : Welcome to the circus_

_-  
_

The men milling about warehouse 64 were divided into two kinds. There were muscle men, and then there were more muscle men – but even amongst muscle men, there exist differentiation in status. The first kind of muscle men, whom are infinitely superior to the second kind in both appearances and weaponry, are outside the warehouse. Most of them are cloaked out with coats, thick bulky ones that hid an almost infinite amount of firearms underneath it.

These walked around the dead bodies, which are littered about the area so carelessly that it was almost artistic. Certainly it resembled a lot an overturned bin. The dead members of the Cadaverinni family is all over the place – like someone's discarded tissue waste – and the former of the muscle men are responsible for these. They had rushed in when the guard seemed most relaxed, and had wiped them all out with a few casualties on their own side. The men had been on their toes, nervous that their Lady V is no longer around, and that made them panicked like little jittery mice.

Now these muscle men walk amongst the dead they had killed. You reap what you sow. Now they are reaping their rewards from their victims – taking their watches, their wallets...Anything that can be of value. This might be a desecration against their code of honour, but no one is there to correct them now. Diego Armando would normally shout at them for behaving like this – but he's in there now, with their new boss, and they couldn't care less if their men out here are misbehaving or not.

No, they were more preoccupied with the other kind of muscle men – who were piling boxes after boxes of things more valuable and far more priceless than any jewelry you can name. They're all over the place, so common in the warehouse you can almost believe it's the same on the streets – in brown, nondescript boxes. They're nameless, faceless boxes, and so is their contents.

One of those men, he carries one of these boxes and deposit it in front of Phoenix. Phoenix nodded at it, and the man pulled out a blade, slicing through the midsection of the box. The brown tape comes apart, springing away in fear of it's own contents, and the box opens up to reveal what was inside it.

"Hmm."

"Looks like it," Armando growled, his deep voice reverberating in the warehouse. "Do we..."

Phoenix leaned down and picked a little of the powder. He holds it up to take a closer look at it, but he doesn't sniff it, just look at it with slightly narrowed eyes This is crack. It doesn't have name tags that come along with it, shouting 'Crack!' at you – so he can't tell what it is, or at least, not yet. He turned around and called out to the two thicknecks standing beside the metallic texture of the warehouse.

"Lift the thing up. Get that man."

The metal gate, it goes up with a big clash and bang, an orchestra of one. No one hears it though, because the warehouse is all the way by the sea, on a pier. A few hundred miles down the shore, and maybe you'll come across celebrities or rich folk sunning themselves by the sea, but here it's more urban. A little more gritty, a little more sordid – and if you open warehouses that don't belong to you here, people turn up their blinds and pretend they don't see. No one wants to get into trouble with the likes of the two men who walked out to the van parked outside the warehouse, and dragged the babbling man in.

"Good," Phoenix noted tonelessly as they deposit the man in front of him. He's a nondescript sort of man too – like those boxes stacked up on the containers right there – but they all know who he is. Gossip travels, you see. This man, he's a smart man, or so he would like to think. At eight last night, he appeared on Phoenix Wright's townhouse's threshold, peddling information on Kristoph Gavin's modus operandi. Phoenix hadn't taken kindly to it.

You see, even in this kind of world, Phoenix likes to pride himself on having a little of that – pride. He doesn't need this kind of little shits running about with information for him. If he wanted to bring Kristoph down, he rather did it on his own, with his own hands – and people like these, who turn around and betray their poundmasters at the slightest provocation, they disgust Phoenix. He has standards, he has virtues, and even if they're a little tainted and a little sordid and a little gray, they're still there – and these people are still on his hit list, so to speak.

Armando looked down at the man with his one eye. He had taken one look at the box of cocaine and a gleam had entered his eye. There was greed, no one needs to be told that. And then there was fear, fear for what they might do to him, and what his presence might indicate.

Armando would have called the men down to watch and take note, except they're already doing it. They hopped down noisily from the containers they were perched on to look out better at what's happening down there, and they're all a little apprehensive as to what will happen. Phoenix's new role as their head is no new business. He's been taking care of the mob in Zak Gramarye's absence, and now that the absence turns out to be permanent, the general consensus is the same – No great loss.

A man who isn't around and a dead man? Makes no difference to them.

Still, it's an exciting prospect, seeing what Wright will do as his first term as boss. It's a little like New Years. You don't get anything but another number to your age, but you still celebrate it anyway. What you're actually celebrating is that you're one year closer to death, but people still do it anyway – and it's the same now. The drug they approve of – first job he does, and it's to haul in big, exciting bunches of green. Now they're waiting to see his policies.

Does he accept little turncoats? Is he like Kristoph Gavinne, the man that ruthlessly cuts down any who crosses his path and isn't beyond the most underhanded of techniques, whichever camp it came from? Who awarded enemies as surely as he awarded his allies – provided that they prove themselves helpful?

Smiling, Phoenix knelt down beside the man and patted him softly on the cheek.

"Good morning. Slept well?" He's forgotten the man's name. If he told him at all.

"Y-Yes—You're very- very hospitable." The man darted a glare at the coke, and Armando growled. That immediately snapped his gaze back down to the floor and Phoenix's crotch – where it should stay.

"Really? I thought it was kind of cold, but don't mind me." Phoenix laughed good-naturedly, smiling at the guy. "Have you had breakfast?"

"No...Not really."

"Gee. Armando, shame on you – how can you have left this guy to starve?"

Armando smirked. "A true man must learn from hardships, shouldn't he? What's a hardship or two along the path?"

Phoenix laughed, and the man – he laughs too. A touch higher pitch than normal, a little shrill, but he laughs all the same. His belly rumbled to argue the motion though, and he looked up, trying to look friendly and helpless and like someone you would be kind too.

"So, where's the nearest grill, chap? Just show me to one and I'll uh – help myself, yeah!"

Diego and Phoenix exchanged glances – and then they burst out laughing hysterically. Phoenix raised his scarf to cover his mouth, roaring into it – and Armando did the same, only less discreet. The man on the floor joined in, because if he does, it seems more like he's laughing with them instead of being laughed at.

When the laughter finally died down, Phoenix stood up, and the two thicknecks reappeared behind the man like magic – not even needing to be told.

"I think the man's hungry. Let's give him a little breakfast, shall we?"

Diego walked around to the back of the man, and with little help from the other two, hoisted the man up. At first, the man had thought Diego was merely giving him a 'helping hand', but then both of his hands got twisted to the back and the grip on his neck became almost painful – and he rethought that.

"W-Wait- What are you--"

The collected men around the containers filed in closer, like sleepwalking zombies in a nightmare show, entranced by that kaleidoscopic pattern on the wall. This is a new administration, a dawn of a new age for their little gang of misfits – and they're intrigued as to what sort of man their new boss is going to be.

The boss in question only grinned – but then the grin slipped off and he lowered his taller head beside the man's ear, and he whispered into it loudly enough for everyone to here in the quiet place. The only sounds in that place was the from the man, now thrashing wildly as Armando dragged him closer to the box of coke. The other guy slits open a packet of the white stuff, and the ripping of plastic is like a very big bell chiming in announcement of some very great thing.

"You see – people like you are what I don't like. If you're going to be in the mafia, the least you can do is obey our rules, mm?" Phoenix patted the man's head. A smile is on his face, because what he's doing is completely justified. It might not be right depending on your point of view, but it's very right to him – because he runs by virtues. Things like sticking up your friends, sappy things like helping the right ones out. In a drama series, or a video game, he might even be a hero – but for how he applied these things.

"You join a gang, you had best be prepared to stick with it right til it goes down in flames. People like you, who turn around at the first opportunity to bite their masters back...Are disgusting." He took off one glove and slapped it playfully on the man's head.

"Stick by your friends – that's one of my rules...Would be what you would say, right, Armando?"

"Brilliant, Trite – glad to see you remember them. Or did you write it down on one hand?"

Phoenix smirked, and then he gestured at the other man – the one who had slit apart the box. "Get some of that ready, if you please? It's time to use the best way in the world to determine how pure the thing is."

The man nods, and in a few scant minutes, a syringe is prepared and filled. When Gavinne's little boy saw what they were about to do, or at least guessed it – he started thrashing wilder. Pushing up against Armando and kicking at the cement floor like a thrashing eel that's been pulled out of the water and thrown onto flat land for some children park's amusement. All of Zak Gramarye's ex-men, they drifted forwards. Some leaned back like spectators, leaning against the containers and smirking little amused smirks, spectators at a gladiator ring.

A few leaned forward, swallowing – because they knew that at some other time, some other place, this is what they would be doing. They would have betrayed Zak Gramarye in a thrice if they knew crack was at stake – and when they look into the fearful eyes of the man about to die, they're looking at their own eyes. Some gulp. Many swallow.

Phoenix leaned down, and with Diego Armando pressing the man flat against the box, he patted around his arm until he found a nice, blue vein. Then he stretched the skin just inside the elbow – and injected the white substance into the man, even as his eyes widened in horror at the sight of the thing entering his arm, so slowly and silently it's almost discreet. His eyes widened as he looked back up at Phoenix, and their collective eyes widened in return as they watch him struggle. His tongue bulges out – first to scream, then to shout, then to choke – or whatever it was you call what he's doing.

Phoenix has a name for that, and he calls it retching. He has no idea if the retching is from the effects of the drug, or because fear has taken over and had stimulated his bile into overworking. He's not a science expert. What he knows is this : when you face true fear, the book's got it wrong – you don't scream or cry or shout, first you turn around and throw up your supper all over the floor. The man hadn't had breakfast to throw over, so what came out was something along the lines of yellowish liquid. Stomach acid? No one could care less – they're all too mesmerized at his little show, and they don't know if they should demand an encore or for it to stop. He's poledancing – beating against the ground with Diego holding him down all the while, gasping - a fish out of water.

Then with one last retch, he's down and out, permanently. Maybe it's the illusion the morning light plays as it sneaks in through the glass panels above, but Phoenix could almost swear that the man looked blue. Azure, like a very...Fishy creature. He snapped his watch shut.

"Six minutes."

"Hmph." Diego let go of the man with a sniff, and the man hit the ground like a sack. No, even lesser than that – because you can carry things with a sack. You can't carry anything with a dead man. "I would guess it's at least 90 percent pure then?"

"Yeap. Would guess so." Phoenix turned around, and raised an eyebrow at his men. "Guys, get back to work, won't you? And oh, let's be dramatic for a minute. Don't let me catch you guys doing what this man did, okay? Or you'll end up the same." He waved a friendly arm, like he's inviting them to poker. "That's all – go on, shoo shoo."

The men nodded quickly and nervously, not meeting his gaze – then they were off, rolling the boxes down carefully and throwing them one to another like a massive chain gang. They worked quickly, and in minutes, the huge truck out there is packed to the brim, a dark green canvas pulled across one side of it to hide what's in there. They dispersed quickly, once they were allowed to – going off to early morning bars to discuss their latest boss. This is a man with a backbone, they'll say. Not like that tree-hugger, Zak Gramarye. This is a man with weesions, or whatever is it those smarty corporate types call it. He's a man that can lead them.

Phoenix on the other hand smirked at the disappearing rear end of the truck, clapping Diego on the back, all manners of friendly.

"There it goes, huh?"

"Yes. I'd say you did a good job, except it might go to your head."

"Ah, but my head, like you often put it, is already abnormally enlarged."

"Stuff it in my coffee beans. What are we going to do with the dead?" Armando jerked a thumb in the direction of the dead men of Cadaverinni, lying about like a massive sleepover.

"Leave, them or throw them over the edge of the sea." He ordered.

"Leave it is then. Throwing takes too much time – you had better remember that, Trite."

"Heh." Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck, a little nervous habit he exhibits sometimes. But his face is serious when he said, "We got the shipment now – but Kristoph should be out by the end of the day. But at least we showed them that we meant business – this whole tree-hugging shit's got to stop. I'm going to be every inch as horrible as Gavinne is if it means dragging the gang up to standards."

No one asks why he's going to do that.

Diego just nods and watch the truck disappear off.

* * *

Apollo brushed his hair up into pointy ended bits, which is an amazing feat, considering that both his legs are still cycling. He's so good it hurts though – and this is something he's really proud of – the way he can cycle without his hands on the handlebar. It's the one thing Apollo's good at, and if he runs off to sign up for the Berry Big Circus, he'll probably get accepted right away. He's just that good, pardon his narcissistic tendency.

A car whizzes past, and the bicycle swerves to the side expertly, his hands still busy with his two locks of hair. Behind him, Trucy is looking out, seated backwards with her back facing him. She didn't look too worried either – Polly's good at what he does – and stared out at the blatantly staring passersby. They probably think that you know, they're a performing circus or something. In front, Apollo snapped the mirror shut with a huff, finally satisfied with the way his hair is turning out.

"I'm going to be late if you don't go faster, Polly."

"You're always late anyway," He retorted. "You're always performing by the school gates – and don't think I don't know either. The teacher tells me everything."

"Except apparently, the fact that I bring Mr. Hat to school."

"Yeah, except the fact that you – Wait, WHAT?"

The bicycle swerved violently as another car came running, the puddle splashing up and almost hitting the both of them.

"I'm just kidding, Apollo. Stop being so type A."

"I'm not being Type A, I'm being the concerned guardian."

"The concerned guardian that's about to send me in late, maybe. Go faster, Polly – or I'll whack you."

She clutched onto his files tightly as they go faster, both Apollo's legs going at a speed that looks comical in comparison to how slow they were going. Maybe she should lose weight a little or something – but eventually they get there anyway. El Sereno's High School, otherwise known as the local nun school. Chosen and fixed up specifically because Apollo Justice is paranoid that his little sister will end up with some kind of hippie guy with three nose rings and runs off to be white thrash at the local trailer park.

Trucy disembarks, scratching both feet on the ground to help slow the bicycle down. She hopped off and corrected her hat, then passed the thick bundle of files she had been holding onto throughout the journey.

"There you go, Polly. And good luck with the case later, mm?"

Apollo nodded at her – had told her everything he could about the case yesterday until his throat got sore, and left everything for Trucy to figure out. Trucy's brilliant at predicting things – and if she plays chess, she'll probably beat him soundly at it. As it is, she's far too impatient for chess, but she's a great help when it comes to cases though. You can say she's half the reason Apollo wins his cases, the other half being his own skill of course. Trucy leaned forward and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

"And remember – we're out of milk. You had better get some on the way home, or you won't be able to sleep tonight."

"I think milk's the reason I can't sleep," Apollo retorted. "I'm lactose intolerant, Trucy."

"Don't be silly – milk helps everyone to sleep! Now remember to get it, or I'll be crossed." She looked at his files. "Do I need to write it down somewhere? I have some magic markers."

"NO. Absolutely not."

"Okay, okay. Just remember." With one last playful thwack at his hair, Trucy bounded off and up the stairs to her school, ready to dazzle her classmates with her skills again. She's a natural – and she makes even cheap tricks out of secondhand bookstores look amazing in a way that defies all human expectation. Maybe it's the showmanship – the way you sell it. If you act like it's the most amazing thing on Earth, even tofu can look cool. Apollo lingered there for a moment – looking after Trucy and calculating their budget – before pedalling off once she disappeared.

He made a mental note to stop by Walmart later to cart off some milk, and maybe hit Grifforth up for an advance on his salary. The man will agree to anything for now, while Apollo's taking the case. The last thing the old man needed would be for Apollo to regress on his word and him having to find someone else who's stupid or confident enough to take the Gavinne case. Apollo still isn't sure which one he is. No, he's taking this for one thing and one thing alone. Climb higher. He has to climb higher. They're already at their limit – they can't stretch the budget any further. Any poorer, and they'll be lying on the streets, without anything, least of all milk. He has to climb, faster, higher, and make more money – however.

Apollo cycled all the way to the courthouse – his first and last stop for the day. He rolled the beaten bicycle right up to the slots for the motorbikes and made sure his was firmly behind the bar. If he parks it right next to the obnoxious hogs, some asshole or another will come up with this brilliant idea to roll over his bicycle, and then he'll be left walking home with two sticks where his bike had been. Today, there's a flashy purple one taking a good spot there, and Apollo stuck his in front of the purple hog – where it'll be safe.

He chained it up, looping it elaborately. No one's going to take it because they want it, but it's a new neighbourhood. L.A's not exactly a safe place now, not with the gangs on the rise. Some neighbourhood teen gangsta' might decide it's a good idea to play a prank on him. It'll keep it safe, and it's not like he needs to move the bike any time soon. Apollo had a feeling he'll be staying here for the rest of the day, if he's going to go home before the janitors do at all.

Once he's done, he went up to the courthouse with his files under one arm. The trial for Kristoph Gavinne is set in courtroom number three, and he went there – taking his spot up in the defendant's lobby. Kristoph Gavinne is not there, but then again – he's a mob boss. He probably has a lot to do in his cell, like discussing whose and which limb to saw off. Apollo had better things to do than to wander off to search for him, and with one last look at the time – thirty minutes to the start of the trial, better start reading – he settled on the couch and started flipping through his material.

He didn't have long to wait before the next commotion came.

Exactly sixteen minutes later, a man appeared at the doorway, frowning lightly and looking for all the world like he rather died than be there. Apollo didn't notice him though – it was the envelope on his hands that very much intrigued him. It's brown, light, and recognizably that of the reports from forensics. Those usually get intercepted by the prosecution – God knows why, but they get special treatment in the state offices. It did make sense, in a convoluted sort of way. The state and the law exists for one thing after all – to charge and punish the wrong – and people like Apollo, public defenders, are just there to give the world an illusion that the play is very much fair.

"Are you Justice?" The man snipped out.

"Yes, I am." Apollo answered, rising up. _And if you make one pun about by name, I will stick a pin in a voodoo doll of you._

The man's scowl deepened, like the fact that Apollo is admitting to being Apollo is an offensive statement.

"Zylinder. From CA, arson department. This here," He slapped the envelope into his hands. "Is your report for the whole thing. Zak Gramarye's forensics report, as well as the whole take of the place."

"Wow." Apollo unwrapped the envelope like a candy and turned it upside down for it's contents. Sure enough, there is the report...For everything. A strange thing on it's own – usually these doesn't appear for the public defenders unless they go hunting for it, and he voiced it so.

"Klavier dug it up for you. Said you're not going to win even a game of poker on your own without help."

"Klavier?"

"Kristoph Gavinne's younger brother."

Ah, man du irritating.

"Wow, thanks. Tell him I say thank you, won't you? And that I happen to be pretty good at poker." He flipped through the thing. Everything checked out.

"So the cause of death is fire?"

"Ain't it so."

Apollo scowled at him. "Can't you PD guys answer my questions for a change? I might be a public defense, but I happen to work for the state too you know."

A lip went up. "Okay. Here's the deal. Zak Gramarye, at approximately two on the day before yesterday, was at the Borscht Bowl Club. He burns. The reason being that he happened to be cloaked in something – that something being gasoline, from what the forensics been salvaging. No one's telling why there's gasoline all over the man, but there is. The coroner sliced him up like Kentucky's Fried Chicken, and nothing's there to indicate anything's been done to him other than the fire."

"No internal bleeding, nothing?"

"Nope. That guy burned to death, plain and simple. Someone set him on fire, he burns like toast. Then he dies. Amazing shit happens. The forensics guys found one nifty can of gasoline in the kitchen, suspected to be the reason the guy burns like french fries."

Apollo scowled. "But that's..." Who wouldn't notice having gasoline all over you? Apollo's never had much opportunity in life to smell the stuff, but if it's anything like the rest of the petroleum family, then it sure as hell wouldn't be a good smell in the air. The man merely shrugged when he said that though. Apollo's fingers stopped at the page on Zak Gramarye's health report from before his death.

"He has a nose tumour." He announced, sounding somewhat like something's strangling him. That must mean whoever had murdered the man knew about the nose tumour, which narrowed down their list of possibilities considerably. He didn't like where this is starting to go.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Says so here. Thing is. Who knows?"

"Well not me – that's for sure. Some of the other bigshots? Some guy in his groupie?"

Apollo massaged his forehead with one finger – he doesn't like where this is going, at all.

"Hey, strange things happen. It ain't my duty to supply you information on every great wonder out there. Now can I go? There's a game down in the race track I gotta hit."

He nodded, and the man disappeared off to gamble away his day's salary or whatever so quickly he looked like a galloping racehorse himself. Apollo's frown never wavered, and he sank back down onto the couch. Maybe he really shouldn't have been so confident yesterday. The man's looking more and more guilty with every passing minute...After all, the contradictions in the case is so glaringly obvious. At least Payne's the prosecutor for it, so he might survive. Maybe.

He just hoped he can do it, hassle free.

* * *

"Court is now in session for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne."

The gavel came down twice, and by rights it should be quiet and solemn and all matters of serious. But this is L.A's court, where people sometimes pay money at the counter and mistake it for the zoo – and it's by no means quiet as the doors slammed shut to allow no one else to enter the courtroom. It's noisy, and the noise, it is uproarious.

Apollo filed into the courtroom. It looks as though half the city had decided to turn up to watch Kristoph Gavinne be indicted, from the amount of people wandering up and down the public gallery. There's a lady at the back with long black hair, putting down a parasol by the benches and peering down interestedly. Beside her, a couple of human beings away – is the recognizable black and maroon of the prosecutor from yesterday – Klavier Gavinne, was it? The clothing's changed, the colour hasn't – and the expression certainly hadn't too. If anything, he looks even more thunderous than he did yesterday.

_Well tough luck, old boy. So sorry, but you're stuck with me._

Apollo clicked his briefcase apart, and immediately settled out his files and paperwork all over the table like a carpet of wood. He felt more assured when he's more things to look into. Then with a toss of his head – he's ready. A little nervous, maybe. Killer butterflies are certainly in his stomach as he noted Grifforth and a few other senior at the back of the gallery, looking down in amusement. If he fails this – then that's it. He'll be the laughingstock of the department, forever and ever – and it'll be a long long time, if every at all, that the men learn to forget that he's ever botched up so badly.

Payne's in here too – all five stooped feet of him. He tapped his head as he got up. The court takes another long long moment to settle down, but it finally does, and when it's all quiet and somber again, Payne spoke.

"The prosecution's opening statement is simple, Your Honour, and so is our case. At 2 a.m on the twentieth of April, a man is burned to death – so to speak – in the Borscht Bowl Club. A place for simpler things of life like a game for poker and a bowl of borscht. But it is not so, and a murder is done. The suspect, is of course, none other than Kristoph Gavinne, the local mob boss meeting with him at that time."

The judge's eyes widened. "The mob boss, really!? Kristoph Gavinne?"

Payne nodded, smiling that smile that Apollo's connected to an ape. You know how when an ape pulls it's wrinkly lips back and makes this ooh-ey smile? Yes, exactly like that. Payne doubles are all over the national zoo – God knows he's been enough there with Trucy because they can't afford anywhere else on Sundays. He had to focus though, and he forced himself to stop daydreaming and focus.

"Yes, Your Honour – it is Kristoph Gavinne who cruelly, and heartlessly, set his colleague up in flames, in the hopes of taking over his business. You've seen how it happens in The Godfather, Your Honour! They stab and burn each other, fighting with guns and axes as they roam the city looking for trouble. Vagabonds, all of them!"

"H-Hey! Objection!"

Apollo slammed the table to cut off Payne's tirade, and Payne looked back at Apollo defiantly.

"We've barely started the trial, and the prosecution's already sullying the name of the defendant! In case you're hard of hearing, Prosecutor Payne, we're here to have a trial – not hear you wax lyrical. With absolutely no evidence, I might add." Apollo glared at the prosecutor – whom, need he remind you, he had beaten soundly a few times before – and the man flicked his hair.

"Now see here! They don't call me the rookie killer for nothing!"

"The reason they call you the rookie killer, Mr. Payne – is because that's the only thing you can kill - rookies! Now if you'll please, Your Honour – we need to get back to the case in question."

_Or I'll never get out of here to buy milk. Seriously._

His butterflies still wandering wildly in his stomach, he gestured at the bailiff. The judge approves of it with a nod, and two minutes later, Kristoph Gavinne emerged from the defendant's lobby, smiling serenely and sweetly at all present, as though he is a king about to make his debut amongst lowlier mortals. No handcuffs bar his wrists. Perhaps it's an oversight of the authority, but Apollo highly doubt they would have forgotten to handcuff the one man most likely to escape.

The judge blinked down at Mr. Gavinne, peering interestedly at the man like he was a souvenir on display at a gift shop. Kristoph Gavinne flicked an invisible strand of lint off his shoulder.

"My, you're a mob boss. Really? You don't look like one! You look kind of familiar, in fact!"

_Um. Yeah, maybe because he used to serve in this court, Your Honour?_

"Oh, I assure you I am one, Your Honour," Gavinne replied, smiling graciously in good humour. He nods at all present, and they all nod back at him – exactly like guests to his palatial abode. "Perhaps I should shoot something to prove myself?"

The court laughed at his little jokes.

'Oh yes, please do! Mr. Justice!"

Apollo sighed. Here we go again – an ADD judge and the monkey court, back in business and back for your entertainment. Would you like a ticket sir? No need to pay, it's free entertainment. Better than HBO and Dr. House's seventeenth season.

"No, Your Honour, I am not going let him shoot me."

The Judge frowned.

"It's illegal." Apollo gnashed out.

The judge blinked down. "Well yes, there is that."

Payne interjected here, clearing his throat with a loud 'Ahem!' – annoyed that the conversation swung away from him for even a moment. He reminded Apollo of a certain witch in a series. He took out the case summary, frowned short-sighted eyes at them, and announced, "Yes there is that – shooting is illegal. And it's also illegal to set people up in flames, Your Honour – which this man most definitely did on the night of the 20th."

Apollo folded his arms. The courtroom is really the only place on Earth where he feels truly at home. It may make him nervous, but just like on a stage where you are a performer, even when you are nervous, you must perform. And as you perform, you get more and more caught up in your own world and forget to feel nervous.

"That, Prosecutor Payne, is a statement, and I trust you will have the evidence to back it up...?"

"Oh yes, I do, rookie – and you had better believe that!"

"I will believe that, Mr. Payne, when you give me something to believe."

"Of course the prosecution is going to prove it! The prosecution calls it's first witness..."

* * *

Klavier looked down from the public gallery, leaning against the railing and scowling lightly down at the attorney in red. There's a lot he wanted to comment about – from the man's ridiculous hairdo to his blood red suit. Does he always wear the same colour? Pot calling the kettle black and all that, but it's not like Klavier is going to look down at himself and muse on their similarities. Beside him, Grace Espina, stirred. "Ah, look. You seem quite mistaken, Klavier – he seems quite alright after all."

"Huh." Klavier grunted.

"_The prosecution calls it's first witness...Miss Olga Orly..."_

"I guess. That still remains to be seen, ja? We must see how he defends, not how he carries himself."

"Yes, indeed. And Klavier?"

"Ja?"

"Don't frown so."

Klavier smoothed his forehead into a visibly smoother version of itself. Who's he to deny a pretty damsel her request after all? And pretty is what Espina is – because that is what she's paid to be. One of the finer madames of the city, and a personal friend of his brother's. Across, on the other gallery, a few scowled at them as they noted who they were, but Klavier shrugged it off. He's used to being scowled at now. Being both violin and cello in an orchestra brings trouble sometimes, and here he is, escorting some of the most prestigious people of the mafia into a courtroom to see his brother's trial after all.

The doors slammed apart for a second time, and this time it's the curly headed waitress that's being escorted in – looking timid and completely different from the woman his brother had dealt with...But then he didn't know many of these things. LeTouse had to inform him on every one – and he gnashed his teeth at the fact that he had to be told about his brother's dealings from some other pair of lips.

That man, Justice – he's quick to cross examine though. His strong voice drifted all over the courtroom, and Klavier approved of it. No mousey squeak for this man – his voice is strong and clear. The lady gave her testimony, and the court looked out silently at the two of them going back and forth, trading testimony and nitpicking. They reminded Klavier of a stage show. Even the railing reminds him of the opera – is this how he looks like when he performs in court? Monkeys on the stage?

"So you're saying that you brought the drink into the Hydeout and spilled it all over the man, not knowing what it is?" Apollo called out, and his voice shook Klavier out long enough to concentrate. He should be concentrating – this is his brother's trial after all. And how is he going to ridicule that ridiculous attorney if he can't remember anything ridiculous to ridicule him about?

"D-Da. I do not know. I am waitress, da? I do not make food."

"Really? I say you make something else though – lies."

Klavier smiled.

"Now listen here rookie! You can't just say these things without evidence!"

"I don't need evidence for this!" Justice shot right back. "All I need is logic!"

"And what logic is that, Mr. Justice?" The judged squinted at them. The attorney nodded confidently in return, folding his arms with a smirk.

"It's simple, Your Honour. We have the report here. There's no question about it – the man had been doused with gasoline, and that gasoline had come from the drink, most likely. Certainly he would have noticed if someone took a can and started pouring all over him, wouldn't he?"

The frosty white beard dipped attentively.

"Which makes it a complete lie that she doesn't know about it! How can you carry gasoline around with you on a tray and not notice it? Or are nose tumours an extremely common disease now?" He sneered. The lady cringed a little, and the smirk got wider. Below them, Kristoph Gavinne righted his glasses, and a smile started spreading there that Klavier did not like. It smells like a bad fish.

"Kristoph's up to something again," He hissed at LeTouse. "Look at that smile."

"It's not up to us to judge what your brother does, Gavinne."

"I don't like it," He announced flatly. "There's something here that completely reeks. First my brother murders Zak Gramarye for no reason – now he's staring at that attorney like a pudding he wants a spoon of. Unless he's turned suddenly and inexorably gay – he's up to something."

"Look sharp, Gavinne. You don't want to be caught spewing this sort of thing around."

Klavier frowned, and with one revolving eye around the area in case someone's listening in, he turned his attention back to the court.

"But there you have it, rookie! Tell me, if Kristoph Gavinne did not do it – who did!? Why would this sweet, shy, lady do something like that!?"

Justice shrugged callously. He fingers his paperwork for just a moment, betraying a slight nervous look and collecting his thoughts. Then he's back again, glaring at him.

"We're here for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne. I think it's been established the murder method – he's been doused with gasoline. And who did that? Not him, or Gramarye would have noticed."

"Why not!? He could have tied him up and poured gasoline all over him!"

Apollo was lost for words for just a moment. But it's a moment that betrayed his inexperience, and that just confirms Klavier's own superiority to Klavier. At this, Kristoph sneered and spoke up. "Unless you've developed a method of removing ropes from a burning man, then altering his dying pose – I suggest you find another basis for your argument, Prosecutor Payne."

The man squeaked at the smiling ice pinned on him, turning away. He cleared his throat and pulled at his shirt collar, like the thing's choking him at the very moment with it's fabricated fingers.

'W-Well! I say!" He consulted his papers, then traded whispers with his assistant, a reliable sort of man. Klavier never had any assistants of his own, and he disapproved of them. They make useless prosecutors far too useful sometimes.

"As Mr. Justice there put it..." Payne started when he returned to facet he courtroom. Justice narrowed his eyes at him. "We're here for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne! What Mr. Justice there has established is merely that Ms. Orly may be an accomplice – but we forget one exclusive fact. Who's the one who lighted the man!? The one who set him on fire is the true culprit!"

At this, Justice looked like he had been slapped – and even that hairdo twirled downwards for a moment. Klavier frowned, leaning a little more forwards unconsciously. If Letouse hadn't put a soft hand on his back, Klavier would have plunged straight down from the public gallery, so enchanted he was by the trial. He still leaned forward to the maximum distance though, and frowned.

The lawyers continued trading blows, unwary of his renewed scrutiny.

"The fact remains that she was the who drenched him, doesn't that make her the culprit!?"

"Gasoline doesn't burn itself, rookie! The person who lighted it up is the true culprit!"

"He could have lighted it himself!"

"Not likely, rookie, and I'll tell you why! Here's the report..."

* * *

Three hours and one recess later, Apollo is sweating, if just a little. They've been going back and forth, back and forth all day long. It's like a macabre dance of unwilling feet, and even some of the ones on the gallery have lost their interest, rolling their eyes about boredly. They're going nowhere fast, if they're going anywhere at all. This isn't...Why did Prosecutor Payne had to pick the one most important day to be competent!? Goddamned it. It's not often, but the prosecutor does have his moment of merits – cases he sometimes win, even seemingly defying the odds. But there you have it, and Apollo wished to the dearest God up there that it hadn't had to be the one case Apollo's dealing with.

He looked down, shuffling through his paperwork desperately to try and find a gem of information there that can drill him an escape route. The words shuffle past until they became almost a blur – lines of crisscrossing black on white that zoomed pass and they shifted around without revealing anything. A bead of sweat broke out despite his confident demeanor – and Apollo thanked God he wasn't a sweating sort of person, or he'll literally look like a drenched cloak. Not a flattering image to paint.

The last thing Apollo wanted is to fall on his face and prove that the man's words were right – but judging from the slight frown on the prosecutor's face, he realized that they were in trouble too. Maybe he blamed Apollo, maybe he didn't – but his frown was reserved for Payne. How long, Apollo had no idea. He knows he can't lose it though, not this case.

'Well?" Payne challenged, a gloating smirk on him. "How can you disprove it? Kristoph Gavinne set Zak Gramarye on fire! No one else would have done it – not his own subordinates, not this shy little lady!" The lady in question didn't look too shy anymore, slightly gleaming eyes above a steaming bowl of borscht – but Apollo kept silent on that. Pick that egg too far apart, and she'll name her accomplice, which is the last thing Apollo wants. Delaying tactics can only hold for so long, especially since yes, it's a fact – no one but Kristoph Gavinne and the two other subordinates knew about his nose tumour. Certainly not the lady – and she has no motive. So...

"Objection! Not so fast, Payne! How can you prove that the two subordinates bear Gramarye no ill-will? Didn't you just say one of them is his successor? He could be the one who murdered him for the spot!"

"I-Impossible!" Payne screeched. "There's no way!"

"Why not!?" Apollo shot right back. "What makes you so sure that the two couldn't have set the whole thing up and pinned it on Kristoph Gavinne?"

"B-Because--" Payne shuffled through the papers, and when he found the paper he wanted, seized it like a goodwill testament from God.

"Because of this! The two bear Zak no ill-will, and you can call as many of their underlings to prove it--"

"Underlings LIE, Prosecutor Payne. They're their underlings – doesn't that tell you what they'll be willing to do?"

"Ah-ah! But look here! This is a recorded testimony from Kristoph Gavinne himself – he was the one who set up that meeting! Wright and Armando had been informed by Zak only at the last moments. Unless they had been in cahoots – which I doubt even you are stupid enough to insinuate – Kristoph Gavinne would have been the one capable of setting the whole thing up!"

_God damn your honest tongue, Kristoph Gavinne._

The crowd on the public gallery roared out their approval and disgust at the same time. The approval from the state employees, the disgust from the assorted mafia heads who had come to see the great Kristoph Gavinne's trial. Apollo panicked – and in his panic looked up at Klavier Gavinne, who scowled at Payne and looked as if he wanted to reach forward and rip his lungs out. Payne had to chose the one day that Apollo had, to prove himself to be competent, hadn't he? Apollo's palm got clammy, and he started flipping through the papers faster and faster, willing an answer to appear.

He looked up at the younger Gavinne, but all he did was scowled. He looked at the older Gavinne, and all that one did was smile in the most infuriating grin towards them. He looked like a spectator at a stadium, as if the verdict is of no concern to him, either way. A man watching another man to be convicted, a man that isn't him. Too bad Apollo doesn't have the same sort of self-control, and he panicked.

All that crossed his head was this simple fact : He can't lose this.

He can't. He simply can't.

It's become a personal sort of thing the moment he took the case from Grifforth. A way to prove himself and a way to hopefully, catch the eye of some high-ranking firm out there. This is such a high-profile case after all, and Apollo would be lying if he said he hadn't crossed his fingers and hoped, hoped that someone would notice him when he won it and the case gets plastered on the newspaper. Then maybe he'll get picked up by another firm – it didn't matter what, anything would be better than working for the state – and he'll get a better job. A better salary – and then every time Trucy asks him to buy milk, he wouldn't have to start counting.

Won't have to start stretching the numbers, start putting his algebra to good use as he calculate how his money can be stretched. If his pennies were stretched any longer, they would shatter entirely – and Apollo's sick. Sick of counting. Sick of looking at Trucy's face as he tells her that no, they can't have that new advertised magic equipment because he's got no budget for it. Sick of asking Trucy if she had anymore from her savings, and watching her break out that hat-shaped piggy bank with that damned happy smile and offering him her money. Sick of having to see his sister look at him – and tell him – Polly, smile, okay? Smile and everything will be fine.

Nothing is going to be okay just because he smiles – this is real life. Faith and smiles and hopes don't get you very far. They're not running a charity show here. Faith? Hope? Put it in the pawn shop please, Apollo's got no use for them – they sure as hell don't pay for instant noodles.

So he does what he does.

You can understand that don't you? He just wants his money. Money money money, that's what we all want, eh? It's what this is all about. It comes down to green bills, and no matter how good you are, no matter how virtuous you are, circumstances make the man, not the other way around.

Apollo's fingers broke right through the document he had been holding, punching neat holes into the paper. Noticing those tiny row of holes, like a bite mark, Kristoph Gavinne's smile became almost savage in it's beauty – almost a snarl. There's a smell in the air, and it's the smile of a predator having found his prey.

"O-Objection, Mr. Payne." Apollo stammered out, willing his heart to stop pounding. He's seen people do it before – but he's never done it himself. He despises people who do it – always looking at them like a specimen of eel. Struggling until the bitter end – disgraceful. But he's got no choice, and this is done in part to preserve Apollo's own pride. He's allowed to have that, isn't he? The last remaining vestige of it. He's the best in the P.D office, and he'll be damned if he goes up in flames like the late Zak Gramarye. Apollo really isn't a proud or vain person, but there are times where even he has a pride to maintain. How will he look into Grifforth's eyes, knowing he's the newest laughingstock in all of the office?

No freaking way.

"Eh, what is it, rookie!? Not so proud now, eh!?" Payne gloated, his voice shrill. Apollo exhaled heavily – locked eyes one last time with the younger Gavinne – why, he does not know, but he's directly above Payne, and it's hard to look over without seeing those blue eyes, is all – he calmed himself.

"Prosecutor Payne, suppose we summarize your arguments."

"Oh yes, please do!" He screeched. "Go on – win my case for me!"

"You claim that yes, Olga Orly may have been the one to pour the gasoline all over Zak Gramarye. You claim that the two other men cannot have prepared it. You claim, in short, that Kristoph Gavinne is the one who set Zak Gramarye on fire."

"That's right!"

"...But where's your evidence for it?"

There's the trump card. Absolute denial.

This is the dirtiest trick in the book. Hold down, clench your teeth, and argue to the very last bitter end. It makes your defendant look guilty without a single doubt – but then no one is doubting Kristoph Gavinne's guilt. This is the face of a lawyer, someone would say – pointing at Apollo – who is like a politician. Deny, deny, deny – deny to the bitter end, in the face of mud, in the face of bad eggs, in the face of all sorts of accusations. With this kind of argument, no verdict can be passed – done correctly of course. The law is perfect – and without perfect, decisive evidence, you cannot pass a verdict. It's like one last struggle. It's a fool-proof argument, but it doesn't make it more sordid. People hated lawyers who did this – think of them as dirty creatures who are just sore losers.

Apollo ignored the roaring of the crowd behind him in the public gallery.

"Goddamned piss-poor lawyer, the fuck?"

"This is ridiculous! Everyone knows he's guilty, he thinks he can pull the wool over our eyes like that?"

Kristoph Gavinne smiled serenely, an untouchable God.

"You have absolutely zero decisive evidence, Prosecutor Payne, that Kristoph Gavinne is the one to do it. All you're giving us is the supposed, conjecture, maybes. There's no decisive evidence – at _all!"_ He had to shout out the last words at the top of his lungs in order to be heard over the uproar. Klavier Gavinne looked at him seriously – and the lady beside her fanned herself, looking amused by their little lawyerly mudfights.

"Come on, rookie! You know you can't base an argument like that!" The prosecutor shout out.

"Why not? If you want to play the supposed game – I'll play it with you. Suppose that Olga Orly has a grudge against Zak Gramarye. Suppose that the gasoline ignited itself. Suppose that Zak Gramarye smokes, and blew himself up. There's so many suppositions in the world, Mr. Payne – and not one of them can be proven!"

"I have proof! The two subordinates cannot--"

"We are playing law here, Mr. Payne, not elimination games! Sure the other two can't do it. Sure she can't either – but then where's your absolute proof that he did it? Do you have that decisive piece of evidence?"

Payne turned red – realizing that there's no way out of this. No CCTV camera on the wall. Nothing. There's no absolute, conclusive piece of evidence that points irrefutably to Kristoph Gavinne. Any one of the other two could have prepared it under short notice, or Olga Orly could be hired by an old acquaintance. The chances are slim, but chances are there nonetheless, and nothing could be said against him – not without evidence. The law is absolute...And convoluted that way. A snake, like that around the heavenly tree – it can swing and bite either way.

"Y-You--"

"ROOKIE! THAT'S JUST RIDICLOUS AND YOU KNOW IT!"

"I don't know anything like that!"

"This is stupid! That lawyer is so deep in denial..."

"I can't believe he's doing that – isn't it obvious that he's guilty?"

"This whole trial is a mockery!"

Apollo ignored all the jabs. He's winning this one, come hell and boiling water. "You have no evidence, Prosecutor Payne, therefore you have no case – and with that --" The crowd rose, and with it, Apollo's voice, shouting above them all to be heard. "-WITH THAT, I REST MY CASE, YOUR HONOUR!" He bellowed out.

The crowd roar, anger bursting forward like a breaking dam. Yes, indeed they hated these kind of lawyers. Sore little losers who cling to that last bitter end, playing that last trump card of denial, even though it's so obvious, so very obvious that it's him. He did it. Why doesn't the judge see that?

That seemed to strike that strange chord – the one that determines if a crowd stays silent or loud. The crowd falls into a hush as the gavel came down simultaneously with Apollo's last words, pinning down the coffin lid on the sound, nailing it shut. He frowned, and growled under his breath, and the collective audience, they leaned forwards to await the verdict. Breathing cannot be heard in the quiet of the courthouse, because breathing has temporarily ceased.

"I ah...I'm afraid, that the court cannot proceed." The judge sighed out at last. He knows too, that the blonde man, he's anything but innocent. But the judge is not the alpha and omega of the courtroom, contrary to popular beliefs. It's the lawyers – and what lengths they're willing to go to to win their verdict. This one just happens to not care if his defendant is really guilty or not, that's all.

One voice broke through the cloud of silence. Kristoph Gavinne unfolded his arms, stepped up, and said only one line, one of the only words he had spoken for the duration of the trial.

"Judicis est judicare secundum allegata et probata, Your Honour."

Oh, and aren't those true words?_ It is the duty of a judge to decide according to the allegations and the proofs_. If Apollo had left it at that earlier, it would have been the end – the Judge would have laid down the verdict, and Kristoph Gavinne would have gotten what he deserved. Only he hadn't, had fought to the dirty end, and now the man is going to get a Not Guilty verdict, to be let loose onto this black and tarnished society to blacken it some more with sooty hands.

"We must have a verdict, Your Honour," Apollo called out, determined and unwavering. He had done a thing. No, not a wrong thing, because there is no wrong thing. He's just doing his job, is all. The intonation, so strong and unmovable, seem to stir the judge out of his reverie, and he sighed – like a machine who must now do what he has been preordained to do, whether he likes it or not. A wheel must spin, a cog must turn, and no amount of wishing on the wheel and cog's behalf can turn them around.

"Very well. No verdict can be passed at present time....I'm afraid." The angry torrent started again, and the gavel came back down. Cold comfort, but at least they stayed hush. "The court will now be adjourned, pending further trial. Trial will reconvened, tomorrow, at nine in the morning. Following the three days allocated, if no resolution can be put forth – then I will...Have to announce a not guilty verdict."

Apollo smirked, even though the muscles were rather...Stiff. He's won. For all practical purposes, he's won. No new evidence is going to come forth – they're going to spend the next couple of days grappling over nothing, and at the end of it, Kristoph Gavinne will walk away a free man. The verdict may not have been announced, but it might have been, for the silence that hung in the air like a velvet drape. Then like said drape, it was suddenly broken off, pulled off, by a loud clapping – issuing forth from the defendant's seat.

"Bravo, Mr. Justice! Bravo!"

He clapped and clapped, chuckling as he did so – rather like a mad man. Then another pair of hands joined his in clapping, and it's the other Gavinne's, though his expression is serious and solemn. They've just been witness to the death of another slice of goodness and innocence in Apollo Justice after all – is that no reason to clap, no reason to be joyful? Another small, dainty pair joined in, the lady beside him, smiling in amusement. They clapped, and then the big man beside Klavier claps too – and Apollo is suddenly struck with the urge to be very loudly sick at himself.

He racked a hand through his hair. He's won, and victory taste like sour plums. Another shuddering breath, and then suddenly Apollo needed to get out of here. Stop staring at the corpse that is the late Apollo Justice, a nice lawyer who doesn't do this kind of wiggly thing. Doesn't sell himself out for pride and status and prestige.

"Excuse me, I need to go."

He pushed pass the bailiff, who tried to stop him, and then he pushed pass the door, who didn't. Then he's running, trying to distant himself from the bad taste in his mouth. He hears, through divine intervention, the words of Grifforth.

_Sadly – and this is sad, dear boy, never fall down this path of dark disgrace, because it'll be the end of you--_

He's taken that first step, hadn't he? Saved Kristoph Gavinne from the noose because he's got too much danged pride. He loves justice and all, or so he tells people – but first and foremost comes himself. Survival instincts. He's a hypocrite, so be it. He's a human, so be it too. He found a bench on the courthouse courtyard, and then he sits on it like a hen hatching an egg. A red flush all over his face, and maybe he's angry at himself for doing that, or maybe he's embarrassed by himself for doing that – for trying to climb a little higher in the materialistic ladder of life.

Or maybe he's both angry and embarrassed at himself that the first thing he thinks of, is not the justice he has failed, but whether or not this is going to impact his career.

* * *

Kristoph's laughter is beautiful – rich and melodious. Most of the time though, what he's laughing at, the thing that he's finding amusing – that is not.

"Oh, Klavier, did you see the look on his face? Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! You must get me a portrait of it – maybe get Espina to paint one. It's quite the magnum opus, don't you agree? It ranks right up there with the Van Gogh!"

"Ach. Is that so?" Klavier said stonily, accompanying his brother down the hallway along with two other bailiffs. He didn't particularly felt amused – he felt like he just watched a kid being crushed between expectations. The kid – man, but Klavier felt like calling him a kid with that kind of expression he had worn – had ran out of the courtroom like a little jilted lover, and now his brother's amusement at it left a bad taste in his mouth. Like a man laughing at people being tortured.

The kid deserves it he supposed...But had he? What had he done wrong anyway, but daring to step up and take his brother's case? Klavier had railed against him, calling him incompetent, but now that the red haze of rage is a little gone, he had to admit – the kid had guts. You gotta give him that. He's done nothing wrong, and he felt shallow, laughing at him behind his back like this. Like a blonde cheerleader flipping her hair over the shoulder and going 'Oh my gawd, he's so dumb,' when he's done nothing wrong at all.

The prosecutor himself had done it a lot of times himself of course – refusing to admit the truth and struggling down to the bitter end and put a 'no evidence' label on it. It always leaves a bad taste, because you know what you're doing is wrong – manipulating the law to suit your whims and fancies. Something so large and intrinsically justified shouldn't be so easy a puppet, but because of that same physicality, it is – but it doesn't make it feel any better when you've just put an innocent man to death – or vice versa in Justice's case.

"Yes, it is – highly amusing. You must collect him for me at once, Klavier. He's too amusing for us to let him up, don't you think?"

'We're not your toys," Klavier stated flatly. "You can't collect people like that, Kristoph."

"Oh, I can. And I will. Collect him for me, won't you, Klavier? Put him in the same firm as Constans and Lee – better yet, make him an offer he cannot refuse. Make him a partner. Yes, that's it – a brilliant plan, don't you think?" He said in admiration of himself.

"I don't think so," Klavier replied honestly. "Leave the kid alone, Kristoph. You could have saved him a lot of trouble today out there – and that testimony you gave...It was all to make trouble for him, wasn't it?"

"Oh no, it's quite the helping of honesty. At least, that is the publicly acknowledged fact."

Klavier said nothing.

'But I digress, Klavier, I digress. He's such an amusing little boy – I think we must have him for our collection at once, don't you think?"

"Nein, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Kristoph asked him, looking genuinely puzzled. "He has such potential, don't you think? Look how it played out today – we bend him a little, put him under duress, and he twisted justice for us. He has that potential to be utterly twisted."

"Because he's useless! What would we need him for – to shoot dead bodies? He's useless in the underworld!"

"But he isn't, Klavier. Some would say in time he might come to be more useful than even _you_." Kristoph chuckled softly, showing that it was a semi-joke, but that hurt, slicing right up to Klavier's heart and probably severing a couple of veins. But Klavier held his tongue – when his brother is excited, he's like an excitable child. He couldn't care less how many ants he stomped dead for that one ant he wants.

"I don't see the point of having him."

"You don't see many things, Klavier. He's a good attorney – if nothing else – and he's done us all a great service today, has he not? Payne is so wondrous out there he almost dazzles me, and were it not for him and the superb job he did, you will be without a leader now. That must be rewarded, don't you think? And he'll be a great help in bailing out our arrested members." Kristoph nodded at the two bailiffs, and they fell back a little, more like his servants than his guards. "Go Klavier, recruit him for the firm."

"Ja....If you say so."

Wordlessly, Klavier turned away. He doesn't want to face his brother when he gets like this, when he looks do damned...Sadistic. A sadistic bastard who would watch the world burn and stir his wine to it in amusement. He prefers the old Kristoph – who wouldn't say a word against people that's bad - the nice Kristoph. So instead, he walked away, both hands shoved inside his pocket. Then one came out, and he dialed in Jacques Constans number. It rang, and the man picked up – though he might as well not for all he had to say.

"Prepare the firm for a new lawyer."

Jacques wasn't given a chance to answer – the moment he was sure the message got across space time, Klavier snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into his pocket. He passed by a bailiff and stopped him to ask him about the whereabouts of Secretary Boy – has he seen him? No sir, I have not.

He walks.

He doesn't get his brother sometimes. The world is a game. A big fat game of chess that he always wins, because he's the sickest fuck in the whole chessboard. If they're all chess pieces, Kristoph won't be a chess piece – he wouldn't be king. No, they would need to carve a new chess piece for him, one with an attached halo and a pair of horns. Because he can be both the lowliest demon and the saintliest God when the desire struck him to be – as malleable as tissue.

He walks some more. Have you seen an attorney? About five feet five, kind of short by normal standards, with a stupid hairdo? No? Sorry to bug you, ja?

He still doesn't get his brother. He treats people like toys. Treats Klavier like a toy. And now he inexplicably wants to collect this attorney for his collection. He doesn't like this. They won the trial in a day – thanks to Apollo Justice. This makes things move a little quicker, will help clamp the lid down on the deserters, something that Klavier had had to deal with last night, to his great chagrin. He doesn't like that either – questioning capture mice and then sending them off to someone else in their death. They're going to be brought to the big graveyard of L.A, one or the other, doesn't really matter. In the silence of the night, with the waning moon as witness, almost poetic in it's beauty, they are going to dig a hole with a shaky shovel. Then they are going to lie in the hole.

He walks.

He doesn't like that attorney too, come to think of it. There's something about Apollo Justice that he hates. Call it gut feeling. There's something about the man that is just a little too pure – when you look at him, you get this nice feeling about him. The man should be spending his life behind a diminishing desk. Klavier has no business dragging him out of it. He should be allowed, in short, to wallow all his life in paperwork, and grow into a bitter man in a brittle suit, who frowns down at people, who, in a few short years, replace the likes of that Grifforth man.

Yes, Apollo Justice is going to end up on that beaten path, and Klavier shouldn't be intervening in the process of yet another dying man in a dying city. But he does anyway, because there's a bigger picture here that's moving too fast for his liking. Everyone's keeping secrets. Most of all his brother. And if Kristoph calls, you come like a damned dog – woof woof, and off you go. Otherwise, next time this Sunday, you might find yourself hanging upside down from a telephone pole. And if you're his brother? Then cheers for you – you hang all the higher.

Klavier walks, and he walked out to the courtyard. There, he finds his target – the little fishy he's been ordered to reel in. His brother hadn't specific exactly what Klavier should do to the man if he refused, but then again, failing is rarely a stated option in the presence of the very honourable Mr. Kristoph Gavinne. He seems hellbent on adding the little man to his collection though, so perhaps all he'll do is pester the little attorney some more.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Justice."

It's a round courtyard. Tiled. Mosaic and all you know – very big budget from the L.A, since the place's been under the spotlight with the whole new fight crime policy. Pretty soon it's going to stain, with so many footsteps passing through it everyday. But then again, by then – it'll be all over, the election that is – and no one would care less if the tiles now spell BIG FUCK or FIGHT CRIME.

The man looked up, and he looked semi-puzzled. Like he's looking at the tiles and asking them if that was the right thing to do – saving a guilty man – and is now all angsty over it. The tiles will spell no answer for him though – just like nothing in the world could. Something had turned back there, without them knowing of it, and the wheels had all collided and is now a mass of bodies moving somewhere, a destination no one knows of yet. But move it does though, and it's about time it moves.

"Oh. It's you."

"Ach, it is me, ja? You were expecting a pretty girl in admiration of your lovely work in there?"

"Oh, lovely work, is it now? What work? I thought it was the work I'm not up to?"

"You still aren't. You got lucky in there, that's all."

Justice looked up at him, a scowl marring his brow. "I see you're not easily impressed."

"I'm not. Especially not by such a crappy performance. No one is going to ask for an encore of that, ja? You could have done it with more oomph, flashier, more explosive – rocking the court. You just looked like a dancing jester."

"Thank you so much sir, I'll be sure to keep that in mind the next time I decide to play dirty and play that last trump card."

Klavier stood, both hands in pocket. He doesn't ask the man to move aside, even though one whole bench is hardly for only one man. He doesn't want to sit there and play I'm-your-friend with you and pat the man's back. So he just saved a guilty man. So what? Klavier prosecutes innocent people all the time, doesn't he? He's not Justice's friend – in both ways, pun or not – and he's not about to act like one. Hypocrisy is Kristoph's cup of tea, not his.

"You should," He told him pointedly. Then, "No need to mince words then – I came with an offer from my brother."

The man doesn't move, but his spine stiffens just a little. Klavier expects something – a greedy sparkle in his eyes – and he isn't disappointed. There's just that slightest gleam of it, or maybe it was the eyes of a person who's expectations had been met. Klavier knew what that was all about – why he had taken such a big risk of a job in the first place. To climb himself to a higher spot in the universal ladder – isn't that what we're all here for? It wasn't the eager beaver sparkle he expected though – only a spark of recognition instead of the sliminess of an expectant man, and that made Klavier gave just a tiny slice of sorry for the man. He's just another player in their game.

"What does he want?"

"A job. He offers you a job."

The man stays quiet, and Klavier plowed on, reciting it like poetry at his aunt's pink parlor. "A permanent partner in a firm he started for the gang. A ten-percent cut of whatever the firm earns a year, which amounts to ten-percent of whatever my brother pays you guys – because you'll be doing nothing but his jobs most of the time."

'Permanent, that is – until he disposes of me when I've outlast my usefulness."

"A sad fact, Mr. Justice – but then that is the fate of all batteries. When you've finished your charge, you drop off into the bin, nein?"

"Well put, Mr Gavinne. Aren't we the artiste, huh?" He retorted in a bitter tone.

"At least it's better than being a deadbeat attorney with nowhere to go." He replied bluntly.

Harsh, but it's true, ain't it? Klavier's not a babysitter. Why does he have to pull punches?

"As I said. A permanent partner in Constans, Lee, and .co, until as you say – you outweigh your usefulness."

"Why does he want me? I'm pretty sure there are plenty of good lawyers out there." Justice narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him, as though suspecting him of foul play. Klavier merely shrugged.

"I don't know. Guess there's something useful he saw in you." He answered honestly.

"Ah."

"So, Mr. Justice. Will you accept this offer?" The man said nothing, and Klavier got irritated. He had an appointment with a witness in an hour, and he's not looking forward to this game again. He's seen it long enough – play hard to get and all that. It's amusing when it comes from ladies who spread their thighs at the end of it, but if all he's getting is a lawyer's tail end, he rather not play it at all. Instead, he dragged the man out of his reverie bluntly.

"Mr. Justice – let's not play this game. We know you took the job for one thing and one thing alone – to get noticed by the bigshot lawyers. Now you have done it – for all practical purposes you have won the case. You've gotten what you want, a notice. Better than that, you've gotten an offer, ja? Will you take it, or do I have to put it in terms more befitting the new world you're about to enter?"

The man snorted, but his expression was serious when he said : "It really is going into the mob for me once I sign on the dotted line, isn't it?"

"As attorney for the mob, I'm sure they don't make you shoot people. Unless it's the prosecution's witnesses. That I do not know."

Justice smiled a little at that, tweaking one of his antennas.

"Looks like I got what I want, eh? What a twist of irony. Very well then, Mr. Irritating – one last question."

"Do you get a smaller forehead with the job? The answer is nein."

The man smiled, just a tiny quirk of the lips to one side, but it passed all the same. "No, Mr. Gavinne. Do I have to sign on the dotted line with my blood?"

He put down one condescending hand in front of Apollo. Still don't like him. Still too straight-laced for his taste. But he can play nice, right?

"In all honesty, Mr. Justice – I don't know. But welcome abroad anyway to the L.A mafia."

Apollo slapped his hand.

"Deal."


	5. IV : Vodka on the Rocks

Some anti-climatic stuff to move the story onwards. Heigh-ho, sorry-O~

Thanks for the support, people!

* * *

_Four : Vodka on the Rocks_

_-  
_

Apollo balanced the two paper bags under one arm, reaching all the way down to support both by their bottoms. They glide left and right, and they nearly drop onto the ground and made a milky mess of themselves – but at the last moment he slams the two paper bags forward and clip them between the wall and his body – and naturally, sighed.

Too much groceries can be a bad thing too, eh? Let's hope that the milk hadn't spilled or spoiled from being jostled around so much during the whole journey home. In fact, come to think of it...Apollo chuckled as he pulled out his house keys, the paper bags still stuck between him and the wall to free both his hands – the Walmart guy had looked at Apollo like he had grown five new limbs and two new noses. To the point where he had actually consulted behind Apollo, as though Apollo is not in fact Apollo, but an imposter of Apollo.

Apollo's slight smile toned down a little as he grappled with the lock. Yes well, when was the last time he had walked into the place and walked out without haggling the attendants to death? It's gotten to the point where they allow him to cart the thing off just to shut him up – and sure, it beats on his pride every time that happens, but hey, free stuff right? No one says no to FOC things, even though every time you take one, every bit of you dies a little more.

Well, things are going to change around here. He's not going to have to haggle with Walmart dude anymore, not if he can help it. Things are going to go around, turn around, play a merry-go-round – and unlike said amusement ride, he hoped it'll be half as amusing and that it won't end up on the origin, just like the ride.

The lock finally opened (There's five of them, blame the paranoid streak) and Apollo toppled into the apartment, one arm around each paper bag. The apartment's dark, and he nearly stumbles over the nearest cardboard box and died impaling himself on yet another cardboard box. One of these day he really needs to sit down and have a talk with Trucy about where she stores her magical props – but at the moment, he's just too damned happy to care. Finally got a job – one that actually pays more than sticks and shit – and after a good whole year of wishing too. Apollo's almost forgotten that he had helped bailed out a monster. Almost.

"Trucy, I'm back!"

The light flickers on in the next room, accompanying Spongebob's obnoxiously squeaking voice. Trucy's always thinking of ways to scrimp on the money, and even though Apollo's told her countless time that even if you turn off the lights, the bill ain't coming any cheaper, she still does it anyway.

"There you are, Polly! I was starting to think you've gone and go sleep in the dingy bars again."

Apollo flushed. Sometimes, when Apollo is just feeling particularly stressed and messed up, he goes to the local bar and sleeps there. Sleep, because he can't afford the beer, but he goes there anyway – to inhale the fumes of stale beer and vomit and hangovers and unwashed armpits, because it makes him feel more in control of his life in comparison to the men who frequented those places. Compared to them, he seems a bit better than the washed-up individual with no open doors he is.

He answered instead, by plopping down the two bags of groceries on the table and huffed a self-satisfied little sigh in admiration of them. Trucy's eyes widened at the sight of the groceries – a rare sight indeed.

"Did you rob a bank or something?" Trucy climbed onto a nearby box and started rifling through the contents of the bags, making crumply sounds while she did so. She enthused, picking through them immediately like a child with her new toys.

Apollo snorted. "Yeah, I went to battle in a tie and my nightie."

She ignored him and emptied the bag, ooh-ing and aah-ing at every little thing. It made Apollo happy that she seemed to be happy – and angry at the same time at himself, because if he's done a better job of supporting the both of them, she wouldn't be squealing over groceries now, would she?

"Yeah well I uh..."

"You remembered the milk!"

"Yes well, Trucy?"

She looked up at him, beaming like he had done her a damned proud thing by remembering to buy his groceries. "Yes?"

"Here you go."

Apollo handed her the last package he had – an entire guidebook of the twist and turns of magic, bought exclusively on the advance Gavinne handed him. It sure did chafe at his pride, but as the man put it – think of it as a one-off sum for the deal, he's not getting anymore. Trucy's been bugging him about it for months and squealing over every penny someone drops, saving for the danged book. It really doesn't cost all that astronomical an amount of money, but there you had it.

But instead of smiling happily like he had expected, Trucy frowned at him. "Polly...Where did you get all these money?" She asked suspiciously, not taking the book. She looked like she wanted to reach out to grab it, but is afraid that she might open it and find pythons all over, or a cruel 'Return in 10 days' note stickied on it in those fluorescent papers.

"N-Nngh, just take it, okay, Trucy?"

"Not okay," She took the book and stashed it beside the paper bags, folded her arms, and glared at him. "Where did you get all that money, Polly? Haven't I always told you – no robbing, no burglarizing, and no buggering?"

"Trucy!" He gasped, outraged. "Where did you learn that sort of vocabulary?"

"From school," She shot back. The glare hitched up a notch. "You still haven't told me exactly how you came to get all that money."

"Yes well..." The correct answer would be ' Trucy, dearest sister mine, the truth is, I just saved the guts of a very rich, immensely wealthy, and fabulously evil man today. That's why he paid me. I feel kind of like a whore now, my dear sister – cash and carry, you know what I mean? Yeah, definitely like a whore. Do you think I should consult a priest, sister dear, to purify my tainted soul? Probably not, you say – very good. My soul's probably beyond redemption anyway.

"Maybe we should uh, sit down?"

Trucy's glare did not waver, but she produced two cardboard boxes for them to sit on. Knowing Trucy, her imagination would have shot beyond saving mafia bosses to somewhere along the likes of going down to Wall Street via speeding bullet train, rob it blind, and come back in a couple of hours – all in a day's work. Apollo took the left box, and she took the right one – and after a lot of glaring and a lot of verbal buggering, Apollo started reciting, in obsessive order, the chronicles of the day's events.

He could hardly believe his own voice as he spoke – it's kind of like telling someone about someone else's life story. He woke up that day, Apollo Justice, kind of competent lawyer in the P.D. Now he's going to bed a soon-to-be partner in Contans and Lee – and who hasn't heard of that firm? They're hardcore bastards, and all the prosecutors hate their guts. They do their job, and depending on who you ask, maybe a little too well for the city's comfort. Kristoph Gavinne doesn't give them much to contend with – just bail everyone who needs bailing out, and if he's no longer having any use for the person, feel free to drop him five feet and sixty-seven inches into a hole, and please, cover it up.

Some part of him still found it surreal. Every time he thought of himself working for the mob, the only image that comes up is him in a pimp hat – and he doesn't know which one is a more horrible thought – the fact that he would be a bona fide gang member, or the fact that his hairdo would be squished.

By the time he finished telling Trucy though, it seems a little less surreal, a little less clouded up. Voicing things out have a tendency to do that – just like by repeating something over and over to yourself, you sometimes become more convinced of it, no matter it's impossibility.

"...And that's all. You're looking at the newest addition to the firm. I think. I don't know, no papers have been signed yet but--"

"But that's great news!" Trucy cheered tackling him in a semi-hug. What came was instead, a punch to his shoulder – far too manly for his taste. Girls should be...I dunno, demure or something. Certainly not like his sister can be sometimes. "Why didn't you tell me, Polly? That's so mean of you – waiting 'til the last moment!"

"Last moment of what? I just got home, in case you didn't notice."

"You could have called me the moment you got the news or something!" She looked around the place. "I think I need my staff – something like this calls for some celebratory flowers, don't you think?"

"Oh no you don't," Apollo shot back, shooting out an arm to stop her before she can do something like conjure up a whole roof of doves. The last time that had happened, the pet shop next door suffered massive losses. "And I did – except..."

They looked at the telephone.

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, it's been cut, hasn't it?"

"Uh-huh. But it's going to change now – with my new and improved job, I swear we'll soon be able to actually afford real chicken." Apollo announced. "And those cracks on the walls are going to get plastered, you hear me? Plastered!" He slammed a fist down onto his palm just to show how plastered it would be, and Trucy laughed. She got up to put the groceries away before they curdled and rotted, sounding muffled when she spoke from inside the fridge.

"It sounds a little too good to be true though," She noted. "Why would someone as influential as Gavinne want you in his firm? No offense, Polly – because while you're the best brother in the universe and the best lawyer around here, you don't exactly come with a shiny golden name tag."

"I'm feeling the love, Truce – I am." Apollo flicked the channel away from cartoons to something more constructive, like Discovery, and a man's voice floated into their makeshift living room, ranting on and on about the Grand Canyon's rock layers.

"'Zis true. You're not shiny, Polly."

"Pardon me, but a certain prosecutor is going to disagree on that," He shot back, remembering the man's incessant comments about his forehead. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought his forehead is so damned reflective that it stung his eyes or something – with the way he kept staring at it with that slight frown of his.

"Well, okay. Shiny as in overall – not just your forehead." Trucy announced. A box went flying out of the fridge. "Clean up after yourself, Polly! Stop putting back empty OJ cartons into the fridge. And do you still want that pudding or not? It's starting to look like my science project."

"Throw it away," He answered quickly.

"Okay."

Off went the science project, and the door slammed shut.

'What do you think, Polly? Why did he ask you?"

"I don't know..." He scratched his head in answer. It's puzzling him too – the fact that Kristoph Gavinne had chosen to hire him. Apollo might be pretty good at what he does, but he lacks the glamour factor, as he had put it. And he thought these underworld types were all about appearances. Certainly, Kristoph Gavinne himself had looked extremely...Ah, how do you put it – groomed? Like someone who's just been put through the whole works at a fifty-starred spa, getting all the works, manicure, pedicure, and goodness what sort of cure. He looks pristine, but not in a natural way, like a mannequin who's been stuck into the perfect pose, but wasn't that way in the first place.

"Maybe it was my abundant charm and charisma?" He tried.

Trucy snorted indelicately. "Or maybe you just shouted him stupid."

"Good point."

"Ah well!" Trucy sighed contentedly, stretching both arms up and pulling herself upwards. "Guess we can just chalk that up on our lucky day!"

"Really?" Apollo poked his forehead, still trying to puzzle it out.

"Oh come on Polly, relax! You're such a worrywart!"

"Oftentimes with good reason," He retorted. "Remember that time I told you putting an egg in the microwave is not a good idea? You said no then too--"

Trucy cut him off by hugging him from behind, perching on their table. She thwacked his antennas, just because it makes him all the more worked up, like radioactive signals. "Relax, Polly! L.A's a love town – you're a clown, with a frown – so turn that frown, upside down!"

"No-no, stop hugging me Trucy, this is serious, I think we need to work this out step-by-step, do you have a spare algorithm I can use..."

"Oh gosh, I've never seen someone as straight-laced as you..."

"I'm not straight-laced, I just think ahead!"

That night, the both of them would argue all night long – though they both agree on one thing. It's a spot of good fortune, alright.

* * *

When Apollo got up the next morning, his first thought was that last night had been nothing more than a dream. Then he pinched himself, and got up – but Trucy's book is there, opened on page 91 on hat tricks, and placed on the table in brazen disregard for society's rules on how a book should behave. So it's there, and unless he broke the bank for no reason in a drunken stupor last night, chances are that yesterday probably did happen.

Now that that's established, his next seizing thought was to check the calender – maybe yesterday was April Fool's or something, and the whole thing had been a prank from Gavinne, a little love from him to Apollo. But no, his phone and calender both agrees that the day is not April the 2nd. Still the nagging thought did not go away, he's still seized with that inspiration that maybe they might change their mind and not want him after all, in which case he wouldn't know to thank his lucky stars he escaped that one or start shouting very loudly.

He resolved all these tension and issues by doing a little Chords of Steel training, and that woke up Trucy, who in turn show him back some love by purposely putting so much salt on his eggs that it resembled little more than pickled substances. That resolved with a lot of sibling hugging, and then Trucy was on her way to school and Apollo was on his way to work – even though he really didn't feel like it. Until Gavinne prances in with his big head and further instructions though, it's not like Apollo is going to walk in and diss people in their faces – he's not so stupid as to cut off his own escape route.

Right before they left though, the doorbell rang – five times in a row. Apollo was busy dealing with his hair – and it's not like it's going to be anyone except the mailman anyway, with maybe some presents from one of Trucy's more hardcore fans – and he ignored it. Five rings later, they were getting faster and more impatient, and Trucy hurried off to pull the door apart.

She goggled up at the man.

It's a blonde man – certainly not one Trucy is used to seeing around here. And might she add that mister? That is one good-looking man.

"Hello, mister!" She chirped. She takes a step back, and she takes it all in, with the eye of a connoisseur. Yes, very nice indeed. Blonde hair, tanned skin – white teeth that sparkles in a permanent half grin, and will you please take a load of that chest peeking out from that shirt? Very nice indeed! She turned around to call out to Apollo.

"Polly! Did you order a stud!?"

"What!?" Came the shriek from the other room. It's not like they had many, and Trucy closes the door down to a tiny slit – enough for her to peek out at the man and not enough for the man to see their dismal place. Privacy, mister – is the prerogative of a healthy, growing girl, especially a teenager! A girl doesn't show herself until the time is right – that's part of a magician's secret too.

"A stud! Did you order a stallion!?" She shouted back – completely oblivious to the fact that yes, he – that is to say the man, can probably hear them.

"What the hell are you talking about, Trucy? That's not funny!"

Trucy turned back to the man and grinned through the slit. He looked mildly amused. "Hi, I'm going to guess you're here for Polly?"

"If Polly is as charming as her voice seemed to be, fraülein," The man teased. "Probably not."

Trucy nearly stumbled over nothing. What had he called her? Froooo-lein? Sounds like a brand of coffee, but never mind! What a charming smile! What...Teeth! Oh, she's really running out of praises. He's kind of like a prince, except princes are only for fairy tales and Trucy's outgrown fairy tales quite a few years ago. No...This must be the uh...Unicorn. Yes, the absolute unicorn of the unicorn game, all dazzling almost-six feet of him.

"Polly should be out soon," She glimmered at him. "Then you can tell that to his face."

Since he wasn't here for her – obviously, she'll remember having met someone like this unless he charmed it clean out of her head – Trucy made an educated guess that he was probably here for Apollo. Maybe a prosecutor or some sort from the office? Or maybe a boyfriend – in which case Trucy would disapprove and disapprove gravely. She'd rather he waited permanently for her instead.

"He?" The man blinked – then apparently deciding that they've joked long enough, opened his mouth to correct her. "Actually, I'm looking for Herr--"

Apollo stomped out of the next room loudly, clearly displeased. If he doesn't watch it, he'll stomp a hole right through their flimsy floorboards and through the soles of his shoes. Just because he's going to make millions in a couple of days doesn't mean he gets to have a temper like that – he's already winging the pressure figures.

"Trucy, we really need to talk about this new vocabulary of yours--" He stopped dead at the entrance to the cardboard hallway – which Trucy's always fancy looked rather like the tunnel Alice tumbled into when she's in her more fanciful moods – and glowered at the slit of the door and pass it at the Fabulous Specimen of Mankind.

"_You_," He growled – almost violent in it's vehemence. That's strange, and Trucy looked back up at the man. Apollo usually doesn't get mad at a lot of people. When he does, it's probably people from the office who's been ridiculing him. Most of the time though, he just keeps it bottled up because Polly's never rude to anyone – he's just so...Nice, you know? Too nice, in fact – sometimes people just step all over him and leave him as a stain on the ground. So in conclusion, maybe Trucy shouldn't have opened the door for this man.

"Eh, just as a preliminary sort of question – who are you?"

The man's lips quirked between a smirk and smile. "Shouldn't you have asked me that before you opened the door for me, fraülein? If I wanted to kidnap that pretty face of yours, I could be doing it now."

"Oh you don't have to _kidnap_ me," She sighed dreamily. How does one say no to a face like that? Not in her vocabulary, that's fore sure. "I'll go with you anytime," She gushed.

"Hey!"

"Really, fraülein? Am I so charming now?"

"Definitely – Mr...."

"Gavinne. Klavier Gavinne."

The spark of recognition flashed, and her head immediately connected the name to what Apollo told her yesterday – and the smile slipped off her face. She took a step back, and the door swung all the wider because of it, and now she's looking up at him, but the smile's gone, replaced with a slight puzzled frown. He didn't look so much like a mafia guy than a rock star, but then how many Gavinnes do you know who walk the street?

She didn't like it if he's really the guy from yesterday though. If he's here looking for trouble with her brother, then...

Apollo recovered long enough to comment haughtily. "I see being a prosecutor must be a very burdening job, Mr. Gavinne."

"Ja, it is so."

Her brother gnashed his teeth in answer. "I was referring to the fact that you seem to have a lot of free time despite that fact."

"Ja, I know that too."

What a way to shoot down sarcasm with the power of deadpan. Trucy inched closer towards Apollo protectively.

"What do you want, Mr. Gavinne? I think you're lost – this isn't the way to the prosecutor's office." She announced pointedly. The man smirked at her, noting the way she had turned a hundred and eighty the moment he had announced his name.

"Ah, but that's the thing. I'm here to pick up your brother." He smirked. "He's got a lot of stuff planned for him today."

Apollo's eyes widened. "Now? I mean, today? Isn't that kind of fast?"

"Ach, I don't know – maybe you need to consult your daily horoscope? How about I get down the street, sing me a tune, and wait for you to consult all 12 horoscopes and choose your favourite reading, Herr Justice?"

"You don't have to be so _snarky_." Apollo gnashed out.

"You don't have to be so _slow._" The man shot back.

Trucy looked back and forth at the both of them, head going like she's at tennis match. Yes, exactly like that – there was this once when fat Al had a tennis match with thin Alfie, and it's exactly like – No, never mind. They sure didn't look like friends though, even though their repartee seemed so friendly.

"Where are you taking Polly?" She peered up at Klavier Gavinne.

At this, the man pulled out his phone and started tapping into it. When he was done, he slammed the thing shut, all business and straight-faced. This is a man who's probably better grinning and smirking than when he's serious – especially when he's not on your side. Trucy calls this gut feeling, you can call it salad. It just that he reeks of...Well, not danger, precisely – because that would sound like it just came out of a corny romance novel, but something. Like there's fifty layers of dirt and fossils and precious gems under that grin that you're not getting to unless you're prepared to go at it with a life-size shovel.

The man looked once at Trucy – maybe he's unsure how much she knows? - and Polly gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Schon gut!" He called out in that weird language again – the same one that went frooo-lein earlier. "You're coming with me Herr Justice – down to the P.D office. There, you will hand in your resignation letter."

"What!?" Apollo screeched. "I can't hand in my resignation – your brother's case isn't settled yet! There's a trial at two today!"

"Lee will replace you as the attorney for it," Gavinne informed him. That didn't lessen Apollo's scowl one bit – if anything, he looked all the more furious.

"And exactly how did that happen?"

"That happened because my brother, he ordered it so. He's done with you – test you or whatever shit he's up to, and now that he thinks you're up to the job, he's got no use for you anymore." Apollo growled in answer, and out of solidarity, Trucy growled too.

"So what, the whole thing was some kind of game to him?"

The man just barked out a harsh bit of laughter. "Life's a game to him, Herr Justice. You'll soon come to realize."

"Well, I don't care if it's his game or not – the case's mine, and I'm not handing it to someone else."

"I wasn't aware it was your choice to make, ja?" He goaded.

"Technically, it's his brother's choice, isn't it?' Trucy added. At Apollo's glare though, she shut up. He looked back up to pin that man with one of Polly's awesome glares, now with x-ray vision included. Those are really scary, and when you're on the receiving end of one, you feel like he's going to set you on fire with with his glare or something – it's just that intense.

"Tell that new attorney of yours good luck then – I'm not handing a single file over." He stated flatly, crossing his arms to show that no, Polly is not going to budge on that issue. The man looked at Apollo, then he looked at Trucy. Then the process is repeated, and finally he let out an exasperated but amused sigh.

"Is your---your--" He gestured wildly at Apollo. "Your Forehead always so exasperating, fraülein?"

Trucy is starting to get the idea that fraülein refers to her, and is not a brand of chicken. "Yeap," She enthused, warming up a little to the man. He didn't seem all that bad – at least he wasn't those gung-ho gangsta types that go 'Yo! I'm gonna take you down, blizzoy!' Or some other equally weird type. "He's my brother by the way – and yes, he's always that Type A."

"Trucy..."

"I gathered," The man quipped. Then he took one more look at Apollo's I'm-not-gonna-budge-unless-you-shove-me-over-the-edge stance, and sighed. "Very well, Herr Justice, if you are such a nitpicky little_ girl_, I'm going to reassign the job to you. However – and keep this in mind, mind you (I know you have a very big mind, Herr Justice, I can see that from the size of your forehead, but it is important that you must exhibit that you have something beneath that forehead, ja?) you're still sending in that resignation letter. You're functioning in the capacity as one of my brother's lawyers now – and then once you're done having a ridiculous hairdo contest with Payne – you're coming with me."

"Why do I have to go with you?" Apollo snarled. "Just draw me a map or something – I'll get to the firm just fine."

Klavier just rolled his eyes at him. "Maybe. But Apollo Justice – you've stepped into our world now, and someone needs to show you the ropes of the place."

"I don't need to be shown the ropes of the place, I don't even plan to be part of anything. I'm just the lawyer, and I'm not dealing with anything out of the courtroom," Apollo growled back. Trucy nodded in solidarity, feeling herself slipped off from the conversation and needing to remind the man that yes, Trucy's around – and if you're thinking of bullying Polly, think again when she's not around.

'What he said."

"Ja?" He scratched one of his eyelid, grinning all the while he's doing it. Then, with the precision of Trucy when she pulls out some magical prop, a neat bullet hole appeared over their shoulders and cracked into the wall behind them. They turned around to stare at the smoking hole – quite like spectators at one of Trucy's show, and Apollo started shouting.

'What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

"That," Klavier said, pointing at the hole. "Is just one of the many many things you are going to have to deal with, Herr Justice. Face it – you've just tumbled down into the rabbit hole. The sun you're looking at, it's not the same sun anymore, because you're looking at it through a different pair of eyes. So you say you're just a lawyer – that's what you said. I can say the same thing too."

He snapped his fingers in Apollo's face, as though dispelling any illusions of a straight lawyer in the underworld like smoke. Snap snap, and off goes that delusion. "But that's what you said. When you're defending one of our guys and another gang wants them gone, they're gonna show up on your doorsteps with some bling, ja? If you say no and refuse it, they will put a fist-sized hole through you. If you say yes and take it, my brother will put a fist-sized hole through you. You're going to have to learn to deal with all of that. I don't want a dead fuck in my hands – too much work to clean up."

"I don't--" Apollo opened his mouth, snapping it shut on and off. Trucy would say he looked kind of like a fish, except she's a little too nervous to call him any kind of name. Klavier Gavinne had just laid it out on a silver platter what kind of life Apollo is going to be having – starting from, not this moment, but a couple of moments ago. It's going to be one fat load of looking over their backs and guns and dark alleys, and while the latter two are one of Trucy's favourites during a magic show, she doesn't like the idea of Apollo being involved with gangs and whatnot.

She tugged at Apollo's arm. "Polly..." Trucy whispered up at her brother. "I don't think this is a good idea..."

Apollo just glared at the man, not wanting to admit the defeat glaring down at his face. It feels too serious, rubs too sore. Kind of like having a whole jar of hot boiling water poured down your freezing throat. He's just selling himself out for the money, really, - and don't judge him, because he'll just judge your right back – but it seems like it's a combo thing. A set meal. You can't have one without the other, peanut butter without the oil.

"Fine," He snapped. "I'm still not being anything more than a lawyer."

'So you say, ja? So you say. In a month or so – we'll see, won't we?" The man said confidently. "Now chop chop, Herr Forehead--"

"--Stop calling attention to my forehead!"

"--we have many things to attend. First there is dressing, then there is walking, then there is firearms. And if we can fit it in, we'll have a lesson on what drinks not to order, then a makeover – yes, a makeover, the hair's gotta go, that's for sure..."

Apollo groaned, but Trucy just slapped him on the arm. It's okay – she likes the man. Not the words he say, but the man, yes. Not exactly the world's most trustworthy man, but gut feelings told Trucy that he wouldn't leave her brother if he's sinking in a pit either. A good sort of chap – just not maybe the best. But he's handsome, so that makes up for it in her little teenage girl world, doesn't it? Yes, it does quite indeed.

She looked up in time to catch Apollo swearing at Klavier Gavinne – something he's never done in her presence before, and grin. Maybe the new an improved Apollo wouldn't be that bad after all.

* * *

By the time Apollo next reappeared in the courtroom for Payne's case, he's done it. Done with the whole P.D, that is.

After extracting a contract out of Klavier Gavinne – because you know you can't trust these people without a contract, and black and white is always necessary when you're doing this sort of deal – he had signed it. Now, the contract proudly works out every kink there is going to be in this little arrangement of theirs. Apollo's officially hired, even if he hardly felt so – and the contract very blatantly, and very brazenly expounds on everything. The starting salary cracks at about a hundred grand a year – a figure that had nearly made Apollo's cardiovascular system broke down – and the contract would last for three years. Failing those years, the contract would naturally, be reviewed.

The rest of the money would be what Gavinne is willing to pay them, in other words – exactly how many they successfully bailed out, and how many they did not. Klavier had jokingly remarked that he probably wouldn't shoot them if they failed. Apollo hoped it's a joke. Then again, they are gangs – not the occult. They're humans, not a devil camp. They don't shoot people for fun, nor do they gather around on Sundays, days of rest, to take potshots at their own members. They run by a code, or well, close enough to it anyway, and you don't get in trouble unless you get in the way of the boss, or a soldier above you.

Apollo signed on the dotted line with a red pen, and that gave it all the more of the feeling that it's a contract with the devil he's signing, and Klavier immediately rolled up the contract, prepared by that Lee, who will be one of Apollo's colleagues – or senior, as the case would be. The deal's done. No backing away. He capped his pen, took his briefcase back from Gavinne, and started climbing up to the P.D office. Climb, because he can't be bothered with the elevator.

Climb, because he needs circulation in his ears. It's done, his mind keeps going – really really done. But still the it's-just-a-dream feeling doesn't go away, at least not until he plonked down his letter of resignation in front of Grifforth's nose, and the man had looked at him like – Well, there's no comparison for this one. Artificial Intelligence has temporarily taken over the universe, and is stomping through the lower floors with a green ray gun. Yeah, that kind of shock.

Then it melted into a condescending sneer – the usual look on his face around Apollo when there's nothing for him to gain. There's nothing for him to gain now, Apollo's taken the job off his hands after all, and the sneer, it's very pronounced and made Apollo all the more glad that he's leaving this place before the man finds a machete strong enough to hack him into pieces.

"Oh, going places now, my boy?"

"Yes, Mr. Grifforth. I am – going elsewhere that is."

"Ah-ah! Now this is the problem with you dysfunctional youths these days, you've gotten an opinion entirely too high for you all." Apollo ignore the jabs – nothing can hurt him now that he's leaving. If he leans forward and yank at man's nose, he wouldn't be punished for it – but he doesn't, because he plans to leave this place in dignity befitting his black profession. Instead, Apollo slides the authorization for the resignation forwards, across wooden pane and directly in front of the man.

"Please sign it, Mr. Grifforth."

"Hah!" The man mumbled to himself while searching around his drawers for stationary. Apollo sniffed at that too – Apollo never gets problems from his stationary. They're all on the table, in a jar, and no one ever takes it from his table because he's sticky-taped and carved his name into all of them – and if they take it, he puts on a big fuss. 'Well, well. I heard you give a rather astounding performance yesterday. Bailed the guy out extraordinarily...Slimy, you would say."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Oh yes, that's what they all say around coffee and biscuit. Not much is going to miss you there, Justice."

"Irrelevant, Mr. Grifforth. Your signature, if you please."

The man frowned up at him. "You know, Justice – you could stand to have your hot air down a few pegs. You won one case – and rather like a sore loser of an attorney at that. It makes you no different from the rest of us."

Apollo folded his arms. He has a safety net below him now, and what, a full year worth of hurt? It's starting to boil itself onto it's surface. "I wouldn't say that, Mr. Grifforth. Sore losers of an attorney tend to make more than say, sore losers in the Public Defense department, don't you think?"

The old man's mouth tightened, and he put pen to paper and signed his obnoxiously heavy name onto it. He doesn't hand it to Apollo though, and he felt an urge to snatch it out of his hands.

"Is there something else you need?" Apollo lifted a hand, unsubtly demanding for the form.

"Why don't we chat a little?"

"There's nothing for us to chat about." He retorted coldly. "If you wanted to chat, you could have done it in the year I've been here. I'm busy now...Sir. And I need to go."

At this, the man's lip twisted into a cold sneer. "You don't have anywhere to go to, actually. So you won the case for him. How much did he pay you? Do you think you can survive for the rest of your life on the sum? Eventually you're going to have to come banging back on our doors when you realize no one's taking you into their firm."

"An excellent thing then, Mr. Grifforth. I should think Gavinne wouldn't be quite pleased if I work for another firm and for him at the same time," There – he said it. And he said it gloatingly too, smirk on full force. If Grifforth is one gigantic wound – and in a way, in a distorted, rather philosophical way, he probably was – Apollo would have been the salt shaker. Here you go sir - in one trial, I've climbed a hundred feet above you. You spent your life behind a diminishing desk, to no avail. I am beyond you now. How does it feel, sir, to have yourself being stepped over, the way you so often step on others? Does it feel great? Does it feel good? Apollo feels good – and yes, you better believe he does – and nothing in the world can smell sweeter than the gaudy office at the moment – victory.

The man's eyes widened, almost choking on his own tongue. "Y-You mean, he hired you for that--"

"The firm? Yes, he did. It's not a 'sum', as you put it, Mr. Grifforth – unless you consider a contract for three years there a 'sum'."

"In that...Gavinne established?"

"That's right."

Salt here, sir. Not enough? Hey! I'll throw in the chilli peppers too!

Apollo's smirk grew wider, and some part of Apollo who is nice and charming and honest and easily flustered and good went 'Oh no, Apollo Justice. Don't do that – it's not nice to do this to people.' But they were never nice to him in the first place. So tit-for-tat, eye for an eye. Let's all go blind.

"He really hired you for that..."

"Mhmm."

The man's mouth looked like a fish's. Or maybe it was..What animal has a permanently opened mouth? A dog with a wet tongue? Yes, maybe that. He looked like nothing in the world could replace his jaw to it's initial position. The hinges have come loose, and now it's hanging like a loose screw. He snapped it shut though, a long moment later, when a particularly loud tick from the gaudy grandfather clock he probably bought at a sale on half price woke him up.

"Well!" He huffed. "Well!" He repeated again, at a loss of words. The mustache quivered, the way all mustachioed men seem wont to do, and the arrogant expression came back again. "Well, son, all I have to say is – go where you will I suppose. In a year or two, once you outweigh your usefulness, Gavinne will merely cast you aside for a newer, more competent version of yourself."

A haunting echo of his exact words to Klavier Gavinne, but Apollo doesn't rise to the bait. He merely nodded at the man, and reaching forward, picked the form out of his hands easily – loose as they were.

"I will keep your advise firmly in mind, sir." He pocketed the form in his briefcase, then with one last look at the man – who no doubt, in ten years time will still be there, a little grayer, a little more worn, but still the same in both manners and ways, he gestured in goodbye. There's something – not quite melancholic, because he's never been gladder in his life to leave this place – but sentimentality, yes. Sentimentality, because this place has taught him more than school, from pre to high, had ever managed to do. It's opened his eyes, to the world, to reality, to the city, and all the nitty gritty details of every slab of cold rock.

It's been a great teacher of life.

"Goodbye, Mr. Grifforth. I'll send you a postcard sometimes."

Then Apollo's out. First he's out of the office, clearing up his things on the desk. He picks a small cardboard box from the ones Penny offered him. He picks a small one, because he doesn't have much things to bring with him. Case files here no longer belonged to him, and unlike transferal from one firm to another, he cannot take his clients with him here. So he's leaving every single thing behind, and he picks only his own things, and those barely fill half of the already small box. This is one year of his life.

He has accumulated :

**(1) **Round flask for stationary

**(1)** Assorted Stationary.

**(3) **Chain of paperclips he had made when he was bored

**(1)** Steel Samurai Mug

**(2)** pairs of black pens he pilfered from Grifforth's extensive collection

**(1)** Yearly P.D magazine, that had 'accidentally' cut Apollo out of the staff mention

**(1)** half-friend

and

**(1) **Picture of Trucy.

Yes, this is Apollo Justice's one year of life. He's accumulated stationary. How productive was that? 365 days, and all he got in return, in reward, is a bunch of garbage that can't even fill half a box.

He turns around, and he hugs Penny – because she's just about the only friend he's had in the time he's been here. She doesn't try to tell him to stay – because he's not a dog, and he wouldn't do it anyway. He's got better things planned out for him now, and if not better, then perhaps richer things. One year from now, maybe he'll be accumulating a different sort of thing entirely. It could be rich and expensive wine, it could be women. Or it could be dust on his tombstone. No one knows.

Apollo gives her another hug, then picking up his box, he made his way downstairs – this time from the elevator with his head high and proud. A few looks at the box in his hands and muttered an unintelligible version of 'sorry'. Some sneered, but most just turned and consult their friends anyway – had there been a staff cut they weren't aware of? Oh dear, dear, they're going to have to put in more hours for work now. They're more concern with themselves than Apollo, which is well they should.

By the time he got down to the lobby, Klavier Gavinne is looking at him irritably. This is his new life, represented in the form of a rock-god prosecutor who shoots his wall for no reason than to scare the living shit out of him. Yes, it's well they shouldn't worry about him, because by the time Apollo reappears for the trial of Kristoph Gavinne, every trace of him had been erased and scrubbed off the P.D office.

This man's gone – he doesn't exist anymore.

* * *

"Impressive."

Phoenix's voice sounded muffled, since one end of it was strangling a cigar cruelly. Diego's frowning next to him, but unlike Mike Michaels, now the late Mike Michaels, he does not correct Phoenix's disposition. He's done quite a lot of that, and every time he tells him to take that shit out of his mouth, all he gets is 'You should try it sometimes too.'

Diego is running close enough to death, what with routinely being stabbed and shot at and drinking blends after blends of coffee in self-help. He doesn't need anymore of that shit to help him die faster. Would you suck a rotting cucumber you just pulled out of a thrash bin? No? Then why would you suck a cigarette? Makes no fucking sense.

"That's the kid." Diego announced as Apollo Justice drifted out between heavy doors, looking very late, and very flustered.

"That's...The P.D Kristoph's taken a liking to?"

"I wouldn't call it a liking. Word from our boys in the prison is that he insisted on having a P.D, and that the man's the one ended up being assigned to it."

"Who offered the job to him?"

"Grifforth, man of the name."

Phoenix puffed some more, looking the picture of indolence – rather like Dee Vasquez, and a bailiff walked up the public gallery to admonish them. There's no one up here but them today – everyone having already decided that Gavinne is going to survive this trial with all five limbs after all. He approached Phoenix, but all Phoenix did was stub the cigarette out on the railing. Gavinne would have stubbed it out right on the man – but he's not that bad, not really.

The bailiff disappears off a moment later, having gotten a good nice look at their apparel.

"Grifforth..." Phoenix tapped his lip. "Never heard of him before. Foul play?"

"None that we know of. Perhaps Gavinne asked specifically that he hands it to the boy, or maybe it is luck and chance – the roulette of Madame Fate."

"Ah, I see."

Down, down, and away, Apollo Justice is shouting something across the court. Back and forth, back and forth. A wild game of dancing. That's what lawyers always do, dance around the issue like little men. That was what turned Phoenix away from the profession a long long time ago, back in law school long. There's something about lawyers that make them littler than even outright gangsters. Liars and cheats – at least not every thug you meet on the street is a thug. The same cannot be said for lawyers.

"He's good at what he does," Phoenix drawled out, puffing another cloud above Payne's head.

"Really? Don't look like anymore than a little man to me," Diego snorted. He nursed another cup of those famous blends of his, right out of a flask. Even a few feet away, Phoenix can smell how bitter the thing is.

"Want some, Trite?" He offered.

"No thanks," He pushed the proffered flask away. "If I want to die of stomach cancer, I'll call you sometime."

Diego snorts, and he goes back to drinking. "Do we dig out more about this little brat or what?"

"No..." Phoenix twirled the cigarette around between his thumb and a forefinger. "Leave him alone. I want to see how precious he is to Gavinne before acting. He looks rather familiar to me actually...But for the life of me, I cannot recall. We can't risk pissing Gavinne off right now anyway – at least not immediately."

The coffee bubbled when it was snorted into. "Really? Something in brown boxes tell me he's going to be pissed anyway. What are you going to do with those, incidentally? It's too pure for us. We can't process it, not without a shitload of funds."

"Isn't it obvious?" Phoenix drawled again, pulling the cigarette out for real. The both of them are still watching Apollo Justice like a hawk. He's a new player in their game – a new sheep for the slaughter. Now they just wanna see if he'll be a new sheep, or if he turns out to

be the next eagle. In the mean time, Phoenix had a much more interesting way of spending his time.

He stubbed the cigarette out, then reaching forwards, drop it onto an outraged and squawking Payne.

"We're going to sell that crack to Gavinne."

* * *

Enrich Eple pulled the covers off the big man, looking like a lump of nothing on his table. He's so big that he takes up more space than the rest of his sorry people, and Enrich took one look at him – and noted that by a 70% chance, this guy is probably going to be a lot of trouble to cut up properly.

"This is...The latest body from the department?"

"Yeap, another one of Furio Tigre's men," The lab assistant reported. He looked a little red around the hinges, and huffing to boot. The man had obviously been hard to move around, wheels or not. All of Furio Tigre's men seem to be chosen for their size and not functionality, a variable factor that seems to have eluded the man is that mass does not always equal to percentage of triumph in the equation of a fight – but then again, Enrich's the only one thinking in this sort of terms. People call him too analytical, but it's just them.

He pulled up a nice, sharp surgical knife and sank it into the man's flesh, not batting an eyelash while he did so. He doesn't squirm when the dead man lets out a nice, fresh juicy bit of blood – but then he rarely does. People get freaked out when Enrich tells them his profession, that he happens to be the coroner for the local police department. They get nervous, and then when he eats or dines in their presence, they look at his hands. They look, as it goes up and down on a steak, and wonder if he does that with equal detachment on a dead man's body. If he perhaps, saw through his steak the way he saws through human flesh, and if perhaps, he holds that knife and fork in that particular way because he's used to holding the scalpel the same way too.

"One bullet hole through the thoracic cavity and the lungs. One shot, clean cut. Penetration pass is six inches deep." He smiled, and slid the knife a little upwards. "Probably too much fat to go in any deeper. Cause of death : Internal bleeding, death of tissue. Condition : Deceased."

The assistant scrawled down everything onto his clipboard, pointedly ignoring Mr. Eple's 'humourous' comments. When he was done, he flipped it to the next page – there's going to be another one, that's for sure.

'That's all, sir?"

"Yes..." Enrich took out the bullet, having made a neat hole around it. He put the stained bullet into a clean plastic bag, immediately dirtying it from the inside, and the man winced at the sight of it. It's so bloody it looks almost as if it was his lung that Mr. Eple had just plucked out and put into a plastic bag. He labeled it with a nice One, and then the bag is sealed with a satisfying pop the way bags go when you've pressed them clean of air. With a satisfied smile, he handed it to the assistant.

"There you go. Hand those to the Forensics, as usual. They can write the report, and then our state can prosecute them."

The man scrawled some more, and then he walked upstairs to hand the two – both report and bullet – to another assistant. When he reappeared at the threshold of the lab, he had a new question. "Sir, do we move in the rest or..."

Enrich sighed, wiping bloody gloves on a bloody towel out of habit and necessity. When you spend so much time touching disgusting things, you tend to imagine that your hands are disgusting and dirty all the time. He wiped his hands until the towel is completely red, before he was satisfied with it. "How many more are there?"

"I don't know sir. They're taking up our entire morgue, that's all I know. There's got to be a dozen of them, at least – and that's not counting the ones we've just finished with."

"Goodness..."

Enrich sighed, massaging his worried scalp with one hand. His shift's going to be over soon, but by the time he comes in the next day, chances are, the bodies still won't be done with. Frozen and refrigerated, ready for the microwave to warm them up nice and toasty. Like ready-made pizza, except they're not edible.

And this is why he doesn't like these mob types. If Gavinne isn't one himself, Enrich would spend all his time scribbling into his notepad about how much he hated them. These people are nothing but sources of headaches – when they start a fight, who ends up having to clean the mess? Who gets to cut up their bodies, the ones that they left behind like yesterday's garbage no one wants? Guess – go on, take a guess.

"Ah. Then if we make our free time the subject, the obvious solution is that we deal with them first." He stated. The man nodded. He gets it. The head coroner wants them to move the rest of the bodies in – even if he does speak in a convoluted sort of way. Weird chap, but then maybe he's burned out from the job or something. They've been getting nothing but dead bodies since this morning, and word has it – word has it that the coroner has some ties to the mob too. So it's best to keep your mouth shut about the mob around him, or he might tattletale you to Klavier Gavinne – his band mate. Plays the keyboard for the group, you see.

"Go." He ordered. When the man is gone, Enrich wipes his hands again. He looked at the dead man, and sighed. Someone's gonna have to move that thing out...He wipes his hands again. He hoped Klavier is going to be alright. Furio Tigre's men had been doing nothing but streaming in all day long, as he had mentioned – but the problem is not that. The problem is, the one man Enrich had been interested in cutting apart – to see why he had such a strange skin colour – is not here. He's not dead. Furio, that is. Enrich wipes his hands again.

This presents a problem, especially since half the dead bodies here are from the little show his friends had put on in the medical center. Zydaline had to explain that of course. There's no way Enrich is going to operate on a dozen dead people and not get an explanation for it. Nail's the only sad sack in their group who doesn't know. So yes, Gavinne and Zylinder is reason so many are dead, and the warehouse ones...Well, they're still not sure who killed those. But chances are, if Furio is alive, that would mean he would be out for blood. Enrich had no idea what his friends are up to, but he hopes they'll take better care of themselves, or he's going to end up operating on them.

The assistant returned. "Sir, the next batch is ready."

Enrich looked up, wiping his scalpel clean. "Okay, bring them in then."

He wipes his hands one last time before operating on the new dead.

* * *

Apollo ended up not going home at all that night, not that that's such a strange thing in the first place. As he had mentioned, sometimes he goes to bars to sleep in them. (It's weird, he knows, stop looking at him like that). Yes, and this is no different, except he goes there tonight with Klavier Gavinne, who, as Apollo is about to find out – had the tendency to speedrocket up people's shit list very quickly.

"Achtung, make way, if you please."

The club that Klavier Gavinne had dragged him to, it's not a nice one. It's not dingy not-nice, but rather, it was way too crowded for Apollo's taste. The bars that he goes to nap in, those are usually quiet and dirty and grimy and have more mud than realistically possible. The one that Klavier Gavinne takes him to is a little more...What was the word, active? People danced, people drink, and the annoying red lights kept going over and over people, a massive kaleidoscopic pattern of petals in the air.

"Why the hell are we here!?"

"Meeting your new colleagues, that's why." Gavinne mouthed back at him. The crowd roars the moment he enters the deep end of it, and he waves. People squeal, some stepped backwards, and the crowd as a whole parted for Klavier, and then immediately slam the gates shut by the time Apollo got there. As a result, Gavinne seem to get through the crowd a lot faster than he did, and the bug feelers bobbed irritably.

"Can't we meet them tomorrow – at the office!?"

"Nein!"

And that, is apparently all the answer he's going to get. They made way pass the crowd – a fact that Apollo found entirely avoidable. They could have just skimmed the side of the mass of shuffling bodies on the dance floor, but do they? Do they? No, they do not. Klavier Gavinne had to pick the one path that Apollo wouldn't be able to keep up with him in, and by the time Apollo arrived by Klavier's side, he was red in the face (Not that it's visible with those damned lights all over the place) and smelling of everyone else's cologne.

Gavinne smirked. "Someone hasn't mastered the art of shuffling-do, ja?"

"This is entirely unnecessary," Apollo growled. "If it's the colleagues we have to meet, why can't we do it when I'm actually at the firm? I highly doubt that the nightclub – and me being disheveled and reeking of somebody else's chapstick is going to improve my chance of making a good impression."

The infuriating man only snorted. "Not those kind. Jacques and Liam you can meet tomorrow at the firm – ain't no business of mine. That's your job. No, we're here to meet the other kind of colleagues, ja?"

Oh.

"I thought I already told you, I'm not getting involved with your types?" Apollo growled back.

"If by 'my type' you mean rich, handsome, and fabulous – then congratulations, Herr Justice – you're straight."

Apollo scowled at him, but restrained himself. If Klavier Gavinne is his friend, he would have punched him in the face. But he's not his friend, even though he had given him permission to call him by his first name. He's the closest thing he has to a boss, and he's only one step short on the order hierarchy than Kristoph Gavinne himself – so he would have to watch his every step around him, just like he did with Grifforth. Klavier seemed...A little better though. At least this is one person who doesn't seem the kind who would stab you to death from behind. No, he looks more like the type that would bloody you from in front, after a dramatic bow – if the way he wolf-whistled at the stage is any indication.

The stage's being occupied tonight. Someone. Apollo doesn't recognize, but the crowd's singing to him. He's obviously not used to the vocals – his voice is husky and dumb, and he wouldn't survive a single day in the music industry if Apollo had his way with him. He's still rocking the stage with only the drums though, screaming that screeching voice of his without modesty.

_I rode a tank  
Held a general's rank  
When the Blitzkrieg raged  
And the bodies stank  
_

_Pleased to meet you  
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah _

"Goddammit, there's got to be a bill against this!" Apollo shouted at the other man. His voice is nearly drowned out by the system, bass and treble crumbling because the man's doing nothing but screaming.

"Why, Herr Forehead?" Klavier shouted back, waving his hands back and forth. "It's fun, isn't it!?"

"He sounds like a cracked pot!"

Klavier chuckled. "Pardon him, ja? He's not used to being the vocals – and I think –" he raised his voice because he couldn't be heard "– I THINK HE'S DRUNK!"

"--the hell!?"

By now though, the show's over, and the man hops down from the stage. He looks around wildly at the dispersing crowd, before pinpointing Klavier at the end of the line and started stumbling over. Walking would be quite a stretch of the imagination – considering the fact that he doesn't seem able to walk two feet without lurching left and right like a sinking boat. He prove this too, by letting out a disgustingly loud belch when he got closed enough – and Apollo cringed. Oh God, what does this guy live on – a permanent supply of onion and garlic?

"Gute Nacht, Zee."

The man swerved, nearly crashing down. He stopped himself by putting both hands on the bar table, and Klavier gave him an amused smirk. "Looks like you're drunk, ja?"

"Which part of me looks sober?" The man demanded of Apollo. Apollo looked him up and down.

"The ah...Nose, perhaps?"

The man let out a shot of laughter, breaking into a full on guffaw as he tumbled helplessly onto the ground in a heap, laughing over apparently nothing. When he recovered sufficiently, he climbed back up onto the stool to face Klavier.

"Oh-Oh God. I like this guy, Gavinne. Can I have him for my harem?"

Apollo turned purple with rage. First it's foreheads. Now it's harems.

"Nein," Klavier drawled. "At least, not until we see if Kristoph is romantically interested in cockroach here."

The man giggled. "Shucks."

The blonde gestured at the drunken man to Apollo, grinning wildly. "Herr Forehead, meet my friend, Zydaline Zylinder – but just call him Zee. Zee, meet Apollo Justice."

"Her forehead? Whose forehead? I don't see no girl here."

"Eh...Apollo Justice. That's his name, Zee. Oh, and Zee's a member of my band."

Apollo didn't reply, only crossing his arms and scowling at the both of them. He really should be getting home – he promised Trucy he would take her out for dinner if he can make it today, and what is he doing in return? Gallivanting around with two smelly guys, one drunk and the other soon to be drunk. Men that he doesn't even like – and probably never will either. Gavinne's bad enough, leather, chains – looking like some thrashy bondage porn, not that he reads those kind of stuff. The other guy just looks like someone's voodoo doll. There's enough piercings on him to make one, that's for sure.

"What are we doing here, Gavinne?"

'Meeting your colleagues!" Klavier gestured at the both of them magnanimously, like they're archangels whom had volunteered for the job of protecting Apollo Justice. "The both of us," He clarified. "Are going to teach you the ropes. We probably won't make it to a dressing room this time at night, but maybe a shooting lesson...Ja?"

"I don't want to learn how to shoot," Apollo growled back.

"Our world." Came the reminder.

"Your world is not a quicksand. If I do not ask for trouble, no trouble will come," He replied confidently – almost sure of it himself, in fact. If he doesn't run headlong into the other gangs...They wouldn't come after him, would they?

"Ach, I thought we were a little over this. Suck this, Herr Justice : Sooner or later, trouble will come. Learn to shoot straight – it's gonna save your life someday...Right, Zee?"

Zee snored in answer.

"Ach, never mind him. Always like this, either getting drunk or gambling his money away," Klavier grumbled. Apollo folded his arms, still not convinced that he should be learning how to shoot – or for the matter, if these were the greatest tutor around for it. He accepted it though, when Gavinne started a long long rant. He accepts it because, as materialistic as it sounds, Klavier Gavinne is boss, and new though he is, he knows better than to get on the underboss' wrong side. So he kept one ear on Klavier Gavinne while he went on and on and on about guns, and how they work, and which gun to always go for under duress (The small one in most situations, a big one for a large fight) and what to do if you're stuck in the middle of a gang fight with no weapon. (Just take one from a dead guy, ja? And if there's no dead guy, make a dead guy.)

By the time an hour is over and they've all gotten their drinks – (No Herr Forehead, you do not order that in bars, it makes you look gay, and I'm sure you're straight, ja?) and their own booth in the corner – (No, not that one either, Herr Forehead, this has a better vantage point) Apollo felt like kicking the man. If only because he's own head is swimming and brimming with information he never thought he needed.

So is it any wonder that when he saw a man staring at them from the dance floor, his first thought was that he's an illusion? But it's not. He blinks, and it's there – he blinks, and it's still there. Apollo tugged on Klavier's sleeves and pointed in the direction of the dance floor.

"Look, there's some...Guy there."

"Guy where?" Klavier turned around and looked out of their booth, but there weren't any guys on the dance floor – at least, not the one that had stared at them behind shaded eyes. He looked like a bad clone out of Men in Black. Or some really full-of-himself dude who thinks he's working as someone's bodyguard.

"There's no guy," He announced, turning back. "And if you want to avoid discussing where to put the guns to not shoot yourself in the peanuts, then find a new excuse, ja?"

"It wasn't an excuse!" Apollo protested – even though yes, talking about genitalia is not in anyway proper conversation over beers. "I really saw a guy there!"

"Ach – then that is good. You are starting to see like us, except maybe too much so. Don't say everything you see though, Herr Justice, or they'll put you in a ward." He tapped the side of his skull. "Happened to a mobster long ago – I won't name names."

"-- Cravat." Came the mumbled conversation from Zydaline. Apollo scowled out at the dance floor, still rather convinced of what he saw. It's a man. For sure. A man that had been staring at him, and also them, and he didn't like the way the guy stood like an alien in a cheap budget movie that explodes into a mass of tentacles mid-movie.

"There was..."

"Pay attention, Herr Forehead!" Klavier snapped his fingers in front of Apollo, and he glared back at him resentfully.

"I'm not a child – you don't have to treat me like one."

"Then don't act like one." Came the retort.

They went on and on, guns this, guns that. How to look over your shoulder. How to swagger. How to look inconspicuous. Half an hour more, and Apollo put his foot down on the subject by slamming both palms on the table so hard it shook.

"I want to go home." He announced. Several heads from nearby booths swiveled around to look at him, but he refused to blush. Why couldn't they have gotten a place on the second floor, like mafia movies always do? But apparently not, because, no Herr Forehead – never do that unless you're in a big group. You're likely to piss off a bigger group, or get yourself shot at.

"You can't," Klavier snapped back. 'We still have a lot to cover."

"Well, we're not covering it tonight. I have to meet my _real_ colleagues tomorrow, and I'm not doing it without sleep." He pulled his cuffs backwards to reveal his watch, showing twelve defiantly like an erect penis. "I'm going home, Klavier Gavinne – and if you don't send me home, I'll walk home alone or pass out on you."

Klavier glared at him, then at the watch, then at his friend – who's sobering but still helpless. "Fine." He snipped out. "We'll go then. We'll take Zee's car – I have to dump him home and I can give you a lift on the way."

"Gee, thanks. Glad to see your priorities."

"What did you expect? Insta-love? We're not characters in a girl's novel, Herr Forehead."

Having no retort to that, Apollo just got up. The dance floor's getting more and more packed now, people of all ages drifting in to cloud the whole place up as the time approaches and passes twelve. It's getting full-on, and the music blaring out of the systems made Apollo's head throb in answer, a voice singing a duet with the music. If he doesn't get out of here soon, he'll literally barf all over Klavier Gavinne, like it or not – he's never been good with cramped quarters, and even more so when said cramped quarters had dozens of people breathing his air, warming it, and choking him.

"I g-gotta get out."

He ran pass Klavier before he could respond, rushing out of the place through the backdoor without waiting for the other man. The air is so goddamned suffocating in there that the moment he got out, he slammed the metal door shut and started breathing in deep, big gales of fresh air. Then he slid down the door.

"Oh God."

He raked both hands through his hair. He hated nightclubs. But Klavier Gavinne wouldn't understand that, would he? Bloody selfish bastard – not that Apollo told him his phobia of these kind of places, but then, why would he? It's not like the man's going to be understanding about it, so why try? A moment later, a bang from the door made him got up and moved aside. The door slams apart, nearly flattening Apollo in the process, and a pair of lovebirds drifted out, giggling wildly as they stumbled off to fuck in the dark. Two pairs of long legs follow theirs – belonging to Klavier Gavin and Zylinder.

"Ah, there you are, Herr Forehead. Never leave without the express permission of the boss." He announced haughtily. Zee doesn't say anything, just looking about in mild interest. The alcohol's wearing off for now, but tomorrow morning, his head will crack like a Nintendo DS someone's dropped into soup stock. Not good at all.

"Does the same rule apply if I box you in the head?" Apollo retorted.

"Hmm." He contemplated this. "Probably not, ja."

"Then shut up about it. I've got enough lessons for the day."

Klavier shrugged agreeably, and in companionable silence, they walked towards Zydaline's car. It's an orange one, streaked with black and yellow stripes to imitate the nature of fire, and Apollo, while not impressed with the thing itself, is definitely impressed by the price tag.

"How much does this thing cost?"

"Dunno," Klavier shot back. He looked at his friend. "How much does it cost?"

A look of discomfort flickered pass the man's face, before he grinned widely. "A bomb – that's what everything I own cost. Literally too." Apollo doesn't want to know. He diffuses bomb for a living, make bombs for the mob at night – full stop. Apollo doesn't want to know how he blows people up for money. Boom, here goes limb. Boom, there goes another limb. Sign here, and you'll get the money in three working days, ja?

They piled into it, Klavier and Zydaline taking the front seat. Klavier was driving, Apollo slipped into the back, and before long, they're purring out of the parking lots and down the road. The parking lot is deserted this time of the night, looking like an urban picture stuck on cheap hip-hop CDs. You know those. Containers, closed shops, graffiti, barrels lying everywhere for apparently no reason at all, and amidst all that, strangely enough, working lamp posts that just happen to be next to the graffiti, illuminating it nicely for people who buy the CD. Yeah, urban.

The car rolls down the road, and Apollo dimly registers that another flash of light is off in the distance. He's too tired to notice much though, other than it's higher up, so it must be a tall car, like a truck. Apollo leaned his head against the chilled window and massaged his aching head. It's still aching, and when he close his eyes, the thing that he sees is not darkness or even his eyelids. It's the red and pink patterns on the wall of the club and the stereo going boom-bam-bam non-stop, over and over again. Zydaline fell asleep in front too, and you can hear him snoring.

Pretty soon, Apollo drifted to sleep – and the next time he opened his eyes again, they're on the highway. The lights look pretty – lights from the city streaming backwards in an endless Darth Vader stick – yellow replacing the earlier red – but that's not what he notices. What he notices, is Klavier, and how he jabbed his elbow into Zydaline's side shortly after he woke up.

"Herr Forehead, you awake?" Klavier called out in a strangled tone, flicking his eyes at the rear view mirror.

"I am," He replied quickly, scrambling up. But Klavier shook his head.

"Sit back down," He ordered calmly. "Fasten your seat belt, make sure that it's not going to get in your way after an impact, and keep your head down – below the glass level."

Zee perked up, and from behind, Apollo can see him tilting his head at an angle to see better behind.

"Trouble?" He asked, shaking himself awake.

"Ja."

"Okay."

Then he turned back, and they scrolled down the highway like nothing had happened – except something did, and something does, and no sooner had Apollo finished obeying all his instructions with shaky hands, a horrible sound screeched up from the ground. Tire, rubber, wax, whatever – sound, basically – and then that's the last thing Apollo hears before his ears are overwhelmed by the the loud crash of the front end of another truck crashing into them – a million times louder than any bass you wish to play.


	6. V : High Voltage

Huh...Hmm...Mmm?

I feel strange. I need to stop procrastinating =x

* * *

_Five : High Voltage_

_-_

The impact from behind is like murder on his backs. It's like going to a massage with Kristoph and getting his back stomped on by some fifty million metric ton fat woman who claims that it's supposedly therapeutic to his back, and he is going to be a hell shit load of a healthy if he just stay still and let her stomp all over his back like a stampeding troop of elephants.

The impact comes first like someone hitting you from the back, smacking the 'hind of your head. Then you get thrown forwards, and unlike in movies, you do not get thrown back a moment later. Instead, you cling onto the steering wheel for dear life, because otherwise you'll be the next Superman. It's a bird? It's a plane? No, it's an accident victim flying headfirst out of his windshield to shoot off ten feet away and land in an ungraceful heap on the ground.

The next impact then came – in the form of Apollo Justice. Klavier would like to call the 'oof' that he gave out when he slammed against the back of the seat a UNF, but it's not a passionate sort of oof. The guy had been thrown by the crash all the way into the back of Klavier's seat, and Klavier had no idea if he should be thankful for being here to stop the man from flying out, be thankful for that darn commercial that keeps telling you no seat belts = dead meat, or what.

"Y-You okay, Herr Justice?" He called out, rubbing his own skull. Zee's busy on the other side of the car, even though it was starting to look a little cramped in his environment. The doors sure crunch easily for such an expensive beauty. Apollo climbed up from behind – and thank goodness that the rear end of the car had been strong enough or Klavier would have to explain to Zee what that big stain behind him was tomorrow morning. Apollo did not look amused though, or even halfway thankful. In fact, he looked downright like a bean sprout – or at least as green as one.

No novelization here. He just looks like a tomato you've thrown into the washing machine and pressed TUMBLE DRY on.

"Wh-What the hell--"

Klavier gave him a cursory look. Hairdo still on. Fingers probably still on. Good. He unfastened his own seat belt, and pointed at Apollo's severe one. "Stay in here, unless told otherwise." At Zee, it was; "Who are these guys? The Gramarye Circus?"

"How the fuck should I know!? You see X-Ray vision here?"

"Well, do something!" Klavier shouted back. He tilted his head out of his own window enough to see, but the side view mirror showed nothing. Only men getting very busy and horny at the back of the truck, from all the movement there.

"You've got your equipment with you?" He asked the other man. But Zee merely shook his head, extracting guns and what not out of the car like it's a magical panty. "Why can't you be a Gary Stu for once and come out with a bazooka the one time we need it?" Klavier complained.

"You want a bomb? Here, take my fucking lung – make it explode! How the hell should I know this is gonna happen!?"

"U-Um, maybe we should – see what they want?"

Apollo darted a panicked glance backwards, where the whole of the back mirror had been smashed into spider-sized bits. He looked rather awkward, half-standing in the back. He's too tall to stand up completely, obviously, but if he sat – he's going to be one man going home without any pants to call his own. The whole seat's glassed all over.

"Um, maybe we should...Diplomatic solution?" He hazarded. Klavier growled and moved aside. Apollo – smart little forehead – took the cue and climbed forwards. It cramped them up like sardines, but at least Apollo had space to squeeze himself between the two of them. If things were a little less shitty, Klavier would probably chuckle at how wrong the whole thing looked.

"Do you try to run your conference mates down with a truck, Herr Forehead?" He asked him.

"Probably not, no."

"Then diplomatic ain't the way to go." Apollo didn't look too panicky. Or maybe he had gone beyond the panicked stage to that finite stage that borderlines on hysteria, and is just waiting for the right moment to blow. Klavier had no time to question him on his stomach's strength however, because in the next moment, Zee tossed him a gun. A short handgun. Not going to do much damage if they've got guns of their own, and they will – depending on which camp they came from.

"This all you got?"

"The rest were in the boot. I even had a chainsaw in there." Zee tossed a look at the back of the car. "You're lucky the thing didn't cut into the car itself," He told Apollo. Justice turned a few shade greener.

"Stop that," Klavier ordered. They turned to look – and this time the men who unpacked the stuff from the back of the truck were recognizable. No one they knew in L.A dressed like they belong in a Chinese gangster show – not with those tigers and dragons and ridiculous animal print clothes. Said ridiculous people had weapons though, so maybe they weren't so ridiculous after all. "Meet...the tiger."

Zee swore. "At least there's a bright side to that, yeah? Tiger's got no guns. Worse they can come up with is bats."

"Maybe, but they got a lot of those."

That was when conversation had to halt.

Furio Tigre's men, recognizable even in the darkest pit you care to name thanks to how they look, like wannabe oriental rugs, they were finished with whatever they were doing behind there. If it was up to Klavier to head their operation, they would have gotten everything unpacked before ambushing them – but then who's he to complain if the tiger picked his cubs for how they look and how many stripes' they've got, instead of their mental capacity?

They rushed up the side of the road, and with the bridge's long rails extending upwards and the shadow playing through them, they looked perhaps rather ah...How should Klavier put this delicately...Scary, ja? But he doesn't have time for all that – the highway's deserted the moment people saw the crash. Any bystanders who thought to help had dispersed the moment Tigre's troops fall out of the car like little toy soldiers, and now they're alone on it until the white hats arrive.

"Achtung!"

Klavier pulled back one booted foot and squashed Apollo in – while Zee did the exact same thing from the other side. They pulled back, and let loose a kick on the door befitting a dramatic rock star. Of course, it doesn't fly out on the first try. Unfortunately, their lives don't happen to have double 0 digits in front of them – but the crumpled metal eventually gave up and straightened enough to be opened, and right on cue too – because the tiger's men had arrived on the sidelines.

Apollo screamed – or maybe that was his own voice screaming. Klavier sure as hell won't be able to recite in order what happened – except he did lean out of the car and shot a couple of shots before being dragged back in.

"Are you crazy!?" Apollo shouted in his ear. "You're going to get shot at!"

Klavier shoved back at the two hysterical group of fingers digging into his sides, determined to drag at least one of them backwards. Zee is gone – his side has lesser men – and is standing out there, taking potshots at them that missed more times than it hit.

"What do you suggest we do then!?"

"Wait for the police!"

Klavier threw him off. "Wait for it yourself!" He had more pressing things to deal with.

A shot exploded – a crack that didn't sound like it came from either of their handguns. It's a big kinda crack, like a big piece of steel hitting the ground in a thunk – and a moment later shrapnel stuck itself onto Klavier's arm, even as pain started exploding a millisecond later. The sideview mirror had been blown off completely by whatever had shot at it – and maybe if you handed Klavier a guidebook on all things that can fucking shoot, he'll give you a one-by-one of what shot it. But he doesn't, and the only thought that registered in his head was OH SHIT and 'Gee, they've got a bigger gun.'

Zee had apparently saw it too, because he started shouting at him, almost incoherently. "Klavier, get your ass out here!"

Their car is actually slanted in angle, with the rear end pointed towards the right side of the bridge. The truck behind them on the other hand, had nearly impaled itself when it's back part caught up with the drivers during the moment of impact. Except it doesn't, and now the cargo section swerves to the left, ending barely a few feet away from the barrier that stops cars from going over the edge – were it not half broken. Between the truck's distorted spine and their half crumpled mess, it forms a V of some sort. Pointless, considering that Tigre's men could shoot at them just as easily with or without a spare heap of iron in front of them, but reassuring nonetheless to have something covering your front – like pants.

It's proof of how hysterical he's become, half-mad at how sudden it was, pissed at them for squishing such a beautiful baby, and panicked at what to do – that Klavier's come to compare his friend's car with pants. With one hand, he shoved a startled Apollo out from Zee's side of the car, before folding himself up and climbing over too. No, he's never had to deal with this before – at least, not ones with guns. It's just usual barfights with the overrated baseball bats, and in one occasion when Enrich was there – they had drilled right through a man with a chainsaw.

Exciting bullshit, but not as deadly as a bullet through the head. Those only happen to his brother, not him.

Apollo dropped out of the car like a stunned sack, but he quickly scrambled up and folded himself down and beside the car – and Klavier nodded approvingly. At least the man had some sense, which is more than he can say for his--

"ZEE, -THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?"

The guy must be still drunk – because he wasn't even shooting at Tigre's men anymore, he was shooting at his own car.

'Getting---my shit---out!" With one last roar, Zee slammed his elbow down onto the boot. A shot whizzed by Klavier's ear, and another tore a hole right through one of Zee's bicep – but it was damage done to damage, salt on salt anyway, because the howl and the crunch that came up when he slammed his elbow onto the crumpled metal? That's the sound of calcium carbonate or chitin or enamel or whatever going bust. Cracking apart the way it would if you took a pickaxe to rock.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" Klavier shouted at him. This is where Klavier thanked God he could multitask, or at least multitask better than Apollo could. He doesn't blame Apollo – the attorney's never had to deal with this sort of orgy in his life before, but boy did he wish it was someone more reliable at the moment – like LeTouse. He trained one eye on Zee, and the way he was yanking at the boot cover with his right arm. The other arm doesn't look too good – looks broken, in fact.

The other eye is busy picking up any of the Tigre guys – who are now mimicking what Klavier had done earlier.

Shoot and hide, shoot and hide – they're like moles that you just need to take a good hammer to – and the hammer came from Klavier to them, a little bit of love, ja? – in the form of speeding bullets.

He needs to write a song about this, seriously.

"Gavinne, over there!"

Klavier looked up in time to see another one of those pesky undying cockroaches sneaking out of the rear end of the truck. This is where it almost falls into the bridge, and the man is careful as he sneaks out from behind it to shoot at them. Klavier would never have saw it if it weren't for Apollo's frenzied cried – and he raised the gun, shot, and dead. One mole whacked. Infinite to go.

Zee whooped and yanked the boot cover completely apart. The crumpled steel gives off the most hideous sound you can think of, like chalk and nails down a blackboard. The whole thing went backwards when Zee flipped it up – his other arm hanging loosely at the side like a disconnected limb. He won't be shooting from that arm any time soon, that's for sure – but Klavier still whooped anyway, when he saw what Zee had literally risk a limb to get.

"How the hell did you get your hands on SMGs?"

"You shitting me? Ask your brother – he's got more guns than I've got dicks!" Zee stuck his hand in, wincing as the metal scraped off the skin of his knuckles. Wincing and wiggling, he pulled one out, threw it to Klavier, who caught it with his other hand. Then another came out, which replaced Zee, and finally –

"Here, have a stick!"

Zee threw Apollo exactly that – a stick – or rather, an axe. Apollo looked down at the axe in horror, and then up at Klavier. "No," He breathed out. "No freaking way."

"Just keep it -" Klavier snapped back. Zee spat something out – not blood, because they're not even 50% over with yet - but saliva, because in this sort of situations, your throat clamps up and tightens, collapsing into itself. You just don't swallow well when this happens, that's all. Another hit them, and they ducked, hitting the car close enough that their heart nearly stopped in their throats. He hated leaving the guy like that – after all, he's supposed to be the one to show Apollo the ropes of gang life – but he'll be damned if this isn't the best example ever. Lesson one, never bother with anyone except yourself – unless your life's ambition is to live in a hole.

"Alright," He hissed at Zee. "Go – do your thang."

Zee whooped and charged off in the direction of the truck, while Klavier snuck up and sidled closer to the car to trade shots with Tigre's men. He had no idea how many of them were there – but he would guess maybe five – and he had no idea what Zee was doing either. All he knew was that the they seem to be trading bullets that never hit. He'll shoot someone in the gut, only to have his ear bleeding the next moment because a bullet's grazed by it. He'll shoot someone in the arm, only to have his own outstretched foot impaled with loving oval metal.

It went on and on and, like a rain of hellfire that's not ending any time soon – and Klavier started to despair if they're really going to have to make a run for it after all. There's no way out of here, short of jumping over the edge. They've got no car. The streets are empty this time of the night. If they run down the road, they'll be picked off by them like a kid with the ducks at a funfair. Scoop, and you're out. Tag and you're gone.

And the worse thing is – they can't jump over the edge either, the way he's always imagined they'll resort to in this kind of situation. You sure see it enough on TV- except in TV, everyone swims. He's not so sure if Apollo Justice can even swim, and he won't be able to hold on to him while they make their getaway.

Which reminded him--

"What are you doing there!?" He shouted at Apollo. Apollo looked back at him, eyes wider than normal. He looked like said duck you've scooped out of his element, and deposited in a heap on dry land...Without the webbed feet.

"What am I suppose to do!?"

"Can you shoot a gun?"

"Hell no!"

"Then go help Zee out!"

Apollo looked up at where Zee was struggling with only one arm. He had snuck into the truck, unmanned because everyone is busy being outside and hiding and being cowards and hoping that they can hit Klavier and not be shot at. Klavier's necklace must be damned lucky – or maybe it's just not his time to die yet. The iron heap did make a good shield – but it isn't going to hold forever. Sooner or later, someone is going to hit something vital to his functionality, and then he'll be dead – if he doesn't bleed to death first.

"H-Help him? I don't know what the hell that man's doing?"

"And you never will, ja? Not if you keep standing there!"

"So I go and--"

"Help him, yes! There's only about two of them left – I can swing their attentions away!"

"But--"

"GO!"

* * *

Apollo scampered away like a kicked rat, and he chafed a little at that. But then something explodes somewhere, and he sees the face of a scary man popping up from beside the truck – and he rethought that. Maybe being a rat in this sort of situation is good. God knows it'll be the last thing anyone thinks of shooting. Klavier let out a volley of shots – and Apollo's almost forgotten that he disliked the guy in the face of that kind of craziness.

He sure as hell doesn't understand why Klavier doesn't go and strike where it hurts the most. After all, if there are only two left like he said, why are they doing this, hiding around like this? Why not go out there and pick them out? Klavier sure looked like he had enough guts to attempt it.

The man swung, or the close enough equivalent of it. He stuck both arms on the car roof, lifted himself up and shouted crazily over the road and at the other two men, visibly peeking up from the barrier at the other end of the road. Apollo would have shouted at them to be careful – especially since one of them had one side of him hanging down the side of the bridge in order for the barrier to function as a shield – but for the fact that they were shooting at him and well, even Apollo had enough sense not to shout and alert them.

Klavier lifted himself, like he said – and what he shouted had Apollo so stumped that for a moment there he thought he heard him wrongly. Except it comes again, and it's –

"Hey jerkfaces! Your mole's here!"

The car roof blew, a clean hole right around the edge. Not that Apollo could see from his side, but even if he could, he would have been more preoccupied with the way Klavier used the same two arms to swing himself into the interior of the car, like a man with a monkey bar. He got into the car a second before the metal peeled back to protest it's being violated, and if it hadn't slow it's velocity down because of the obstruction, Klavier Gavinne would have been the late Klavier Gavinne, right there.

Apollo decided this is not good for his constitution.

He left those two to Klavier's taunting and potshooting, and scampered up the side unnoticed towards Zydaline instead. He smacked on the door – and nearly got shot in the face for it when the man swung wildly to meet him.

"What do you want?" He hissed, turning his pierced face back to the steering the moment he saw it was just Apollo.

"G-Gavinne told me to--"

The man swore, slamming his one arm into the steering wheel.

"He sent me to help you," Apollo said again, more firmly – determined not to let his voice come out in a whimper. All he wants is to crawl somewhere and die, but that seems to be jinxing their situation – not to mention he'll never live it down if he ran like a coward. So defying logic, he stood there firmly. "You can't use that other arm of yours, right? I can help."

Zydaline hissed again, swearing, before moving aside to make way for Apollo. Taking his cue, Apollo climbed into the place and stared down at the steering wheel. Part of it had been scratched off, like someone had tried to clasp something around it like a vice – and he saw what it was a moment later. The kind of stuff you use to lock car wheels – not that Apollo would ever know, not having a driver's license himself.

"Take that clamp," Zydaline ordered, and he took it obediently. "Loop the thing around the steering wheel – and whatever you do, clamp it to the maximum. Twist the metal around like a vice if you have to.'

Apollo obeyed, even though he wasn't sure exactly what he was doing, but at least he could get some questions answered while he did so.

"Why are you doing this – jacking their truck or whatever it is you're doing?" He asked, working away. He could see why the man had trouble with just one arm – the thing was heavy. "Gavinne said that it's just that two left – why not just wipe them out?"

"Because.." He hissed back, keeping a wary eye on the side view mirror. The gun they had extracted out of the boot – one of it anyway – is stuck at the window, like a machinegun above a tank ready to snip out at any and all passersby. "Because they're not the only ones. There's gonna be another bunch soon – Tigre won't be dumb enough to send five men. They're just the starting act to stop us."

There's more? What the hell did these guys do to the man? Made away with his lady?

"So we're going to jack this car?"

"Boy, you ever saw anyone jack a car with a fucking car lock?"

"No," Apollo admitted. He's seen all kinds in the neighbourhood he grew up in, but jacking cars with a lock? That's like trying to open a vault with a fork.

The guy doesn't say anything else, but he did stuck his head outside the window, and screamed like the devil himself – exactly like the devil, or a very big monkey.

"Whoop whoop! Whoo!"

The two swiveled around to look at him, startled – and in that moment Klavier swooped, putting an end to their little bullet games, raised his gun above his head and just blew the two of them into sponges with the thing. Apollo darted his eyes away the moment the first one hits – and he sees the man's head cracking backwards so hard you can practically hear his neck going snappity-snap all the way here – can feel it in your bones if nothing else.

A few hours later, Apollo Justice will get up and barf all over something, remembering everything in gruesome detail. Maybe he'll cry, maybe he'll act like a girl and wet his pants after seeing his first death in his short and uneventful life – but for now, the main consuming thought seemed to be to work. Work, until nothing is left in his head.

He clamped the thing around the steering wheel, twisting it so tightly that the screw, it scraps at his palms and leave the skin raw. Then he looked at Zydaline for further instructions. The arm must be getting to him though, because he's breathing heavily and leaning backwards like the loser in an Olympics round.

"What now?" Apollo asked him.

He opened his eyes, blurry, wincing through the pain. "Great, now turn that thing upwards."

"Upwards? But that would--"

"Twist the steering, yeah."

Apollo did as he asked, and Klavier joined them, peeking in through the window and looking haggard. "You got a plan, Zee? Because I can tell you – achtung, gentlemen – I sure as hell don't."

Zee quirked a grin at him, meant to be cocky, but just coming down as weak. "Sure do. Maybe. Yeah."

"Is it gonna work?' Klavier asked, pulling a black thread that had stuck itself onto his flesh. The jacket had gone to waste to clean up after his own wounds.

"Dunno. Depending on Lady Luck I guess. If it doesn't, we're screwed."

"Ja, I see," Klavier replied cheerfully – and Apollo felt like socking him and jabbing the clamp right into his midsection. "I can see that however this plays out, we're going to be royally fucked."

"Done."

Apollo announced it, having stuck the clamp completely upwards. It twists the whole steering wheel to it's maximum, short of breaking the thing off completely, and he looked at the both for guidance. Klavier just shrugged however – fighting and shooting's his kind of shit he deals with. Technical difficulties? Dial Zee's line. Klavier can't tell a live wire from an earth wire from a neutral wire – as long as it does what it does and keep them alive.

"Okay," Zydaline wheezed. His arm didn't look too good. It's stuck at that kind of angle that you know just from a glance that it's broken. Kind of too straight, or maybe too bending-straight, the way only a broken bone sticks out in. Someone's going to have to patch it up – and Apollo had no idea what kind of doctor they're going to have to get for that.

Klavier interrupted that line of thought though.

"They're coming."

And sure enough they are.

Like plague and pestilence and that army of flies – the end of the bridge, a hundred or maybe fifty feet away, headlights were gleaming, flashing out dangerously like cats' eyes in the darkness. They're still far off, but Apollo guessed from the lights that there were at least three or so of them – and if every one of it had as many people as this container does, then it's as Klavier said : They'll be royally fucked.

Apollo felt the ridiculous need to pray. Yes God, thank you God. I appreciate this promotion. Now I'm going to take another promotion right up to Heaven, alright? What's that you say – I can't go in now that I've so cruelly abandoned the realm of goodness for gangsters? But I never even got one job done!

A small semi-hysterical giggle burst past Apollo's lips, and Klavier looked at him sympathetically. "Don't worry, Herr Forehead. It's not as bad as this – not always anyway."

Why doesn't he believe that?

The cars got closer, and Zee, he sighs. Growling, he shoved Apollo out almost rudely – some way to thank a guy who did him a favour. But his mind weren't on favours as he took up another clamp and stuck it onto the accelerator of the truck. The truck's not on, so it made no difference to the three whether or not the accelerator is stepped on. He straightened the thing until it vertically joined both the seat and the pedal, and then with that one arm, he twisted over and got out of the truck, stopping only at the last step on the rung off it.

"What are you going to do?" Apollo asked, looking up at the man. Panic's clawing a little bit higher, and that breakdown, it will probably be soon if they don't get out of this mess immediately. His nerves felt like shimeji mushrooms, or corals – take your pick, Apollo's not picky. He just wants to get out of here and get out of this mess and goddammit, see Trucy again. At this point, even throwing himself off the bridge even though he can't swim sounds like an excellent and plausible plan.

"Just a second..."

Klavier looked at the steering wheel, clamped into permanent tilt. Then at the accelerator.

"Ach," He commented, a gleam entering his eyes. A sparkle that isn't there before, one last sparkle before it fizzles out completely and they collapse in a nerveless bundle all over the place exactly like said mushrooms.

"We can't just drive it?"

"This baby ain't gonna outrun many bastards," Zee answered, slapping a hand on the seat's leather. "One normal car, and we'll be nailed like a butterfly on a board."

Apollo looked at the two of them – completely out of the loop. Somehow he doubted that the truck's going to be in fine shape once they were done with whatever it is they be doing.

"How are we going to run?"

Because his fingerprints are everywhere, and it's just proof that how far Apollo may have fallen in the space of twenty-four hours that the first thing he thinks of after OH NO is, EGADS, FINGERPRINTS. Klavier patted him on the back, watching the lights in the distance. His mouth's twisted into a semi-grimace – guess this wasn't the kind of lesson he had hoped to teach Apollo, huh?

"Don't worry about it, ja? As long as we make it out alive – my brother can pull all the necessary strings to save our sorry asses."

"Coming."

One word, and Klavier snapped his head up to look at Zee – then at the headlights. Apollo looked up too, and let out a hissy sort of breath through his teeth.

"They're coming."

And maybe this is the sort of tone someone a long long time ago would take while they await a god or deity or whatnot to descend white marble steps, or maybe this is the sort of tone someone might announce the arrival of Kristoph Gavinne in.

Regardless of either way, the headlights preceded the cars, a looming shadow that cannot be warded off no matter how hard you pray or hope. Klavier looped an arm around Apollo, and some part of his leftover brain wanted to blush with embarrassment at being led like a little lost sheep. He doesn't, and he is dragged backwards exactly like said animal, all the way until the iron heap that is Zylinder's car, now completely thrashed and peppered with holes.

And then it's like a dream.

Apollo saw the cars coming closer, over the edge, and he can even see them going up and down at the tiny bump in the middle of the road. And then he sees Zylinder, with his hand wrapped around something in the car. The car comes closer, and now they're only about a block away – and Herr Justice, he wants to shout. He flexes his hearing muscles, and for a moment even imagines that a hole will open in the sky where the cops will descend, in which case they would be safe – or failing that, it's okay, Apollo's not going to pick a fight over God's choice. He'll gladly accept aliens or saggy old women with ray guns too.

One road away, and that's when Zylinder bursts into motion. He twisted the ignition – not that Apollo would know, but after that he will look back, yes, look back and he will tell you that it must be the ignition he had twisted – and Apollo watched as his handiwork, and yes, this is his handiwork and he must be proud of it the way proud artists are constantly trumpeting their own works and the way proud authors shove their stories into each and every person's face.

Zydaline jumps down the moment he did so. A second later, the shudder of the truck started. It's headlights are broken, it's front a little smashed, but it doesn't stop it from rattling and shaking like a broken toy about to explode into a million pieces. To the point where Apollo thought that maybe that man had rigged it to set itself on fire – except it doesn't explode. It merely ignites, the way it must have done a million times before and a dozen times this week itself. Zydaline dashes towards them, and Klavier pulled Apollo with him a couple of steps backwards.

They're like entranced audiences in an illusionist's show. They want to see, but do they? Do they really? Only the roots clinging onto their feet stubbornly would know.

Zydaline approached them about the same moment the cars came, the truck still rattling away. He got there just in time to turn around to watch, and the three of them watched as the truck gave one last shudder. The wheels turn as the oil connects to the gears to the levers to the stomach to the engine, having received it's signal. The signal, strong and unblinking and coming from the accelerator pressed through the floor of the car is obvious – go, and blessed be.

The truck is not an engine of biology, or it might have went 'No, sir, I do not.' and refused. But it isn't – it's a man made device for a man made purpose, move humans – and it did exactly that. The wheels rolled as the oil pumped in like oxygen. If this is a cartoon, the dirt would kick up – but it doesn't. Instead, with one last roar, the whole truck swung – the clamp around the steering wheel ordering it to turn, and because it's tilted at the maximum angle, to turn well. The accelerator on the other hand moved it, but because of how the truck had been started and turned – completely without preliminary distance – all it did was to swing itself sideways, like a turtle you've overturned.

Given a second more, Tigre's men would have swerved aside and missed it. It's not a violent reaction – it's barely turning at all. But they don't. All they have is a fantasy of pulling up their cars in a beautiful arc and pounding the living daylights out of Apollo and Co. the way it's always done on TV.

They want to be cool, be shiny, be flashy. They want to lift that Gavinne bastard up by his collars and say, 'Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, PUNK?'. So they, with their accelerator down in solidarity with the truck, they see the truck turn, but there isn't enough time for them to turn around unless they want to shoot right off the bridge – and they---

"Shhh..."

Apollo felt two hands covering his own stark wide eyes, almost gentle – or maybe just apologetic.

"Ach, it's okay, ja? Don't look, and you'll be fine..."

Apollo Justice stood there for the longest minute, stretched to breaking point. Listening to the conundrum, the orchestra of metal against metal echo. It serenades the moonlight, violent and mad violins pulled back and forth. They smash into the truck, and maybe they survive, and maybe they won't – but they won't escape unscathed. And despite all that, the reigning thought was that yes, even though those people would have cleaved him into two without notification, he had lend a hand in bringing their demise about.

Apollo dragged Klavier's hands off his face and barely made it to the side of the bridge before throwing up all over the place.

The truck's done what Apollo asked of it : It's moved people, move them right up to the next plane of existence.

* * *

While his brother and friends were getting their organs handed to them in neat stacks on china plates, Kristoph Gavinne is across the city. He's not technically supposed to be out yet. In fact, the only place Kristoph Gavinne should be in is prison, and he should be doing so without exception until his trial is completely cleared. If you are concerned enough to check – which you will not be because you value your life – you will find that the records check out very well enough. At ten o'clock that night, Kristoph Gavinne had apparently gone to sleep in his cell, the one that resembles Hilton more than it did prison. If you look again, there's another record of the door opening up to let the guard out, except what the records won't show is the fact that Kristoph Gavin had trailed out with the guard too, humming pleasantly under his breath.

Tomorrow, at eight in the morning, the guard will make his first round. At that time, Kristoph Gavinne will trail back into the holding cells with him, and according to records, Kristoph Gavinne had never been out of the cell. Fact.

Right now, he's lounging around the living room of Espina's townhouse, trading wine with his so-called 'colleagues'. The townhouse is opulent to the point of gaudy, and the only thing it needs is a larger version of the crystal chandelier hanging above them to turn it into an opera house. You know those houses, with sweeping staircases of white and rugs and vases that looked like it came right out of a badly rendered version of The Godfather? You need not look further than this house if you're looking for a place to film the clandestine meeting between mob heads.

They hail from different gangs around the city. Some small, some modest, and some decent. There are some in the room without scruples, and then there are some who have too many. Either way, all they are concerned with is the recent development of business in the city – and what Gramarye's disappearance, along with Phoenix Wright's replacement of him could well mean to them.

"The Firebird will set the city on fire," One of them joked. He places a cigarette between yellow teeth, and puffed. This made Kristoph frown as he's forced to inhale secondhand smoke. That just deducted 48 seconds out of his life, according to statistics – and Kristoph Gavinne is far too important in Kristoph Gavinne's estimation to have his life deducted away like that, like someone's monthly budget.

Grace, dear, sweet Grace – she notices the slight frown marring his face and she leans in, plucking the cigarette coyly out of the man's hands. He looked at her, startled and not quite sure if he should be startled. But Grace is who Grace is – she didn't get where she did in life by having well used thighs alone. She aimed a disarmingly practiced smile at the man.

"I'm trying out a new perfume today, Mr. Gaunt. If you smoke this sort of thing, you wouldn't be able to smell it now, would you?"

The man beams, and Kristoph smiles. Always so useful. He turned towards the man beside him instead, and resumed his conversation with him. A man of little importance, but then Kristoph is the exclusive socialite. It never pays after all, to be selective in the garden of friendship. It is rather like dining, is it not? You must have a balanced and nutritious meal – and if some of those proteins can only be gleamed by absorbing a lower class of product, then you must do so.

"...I don't see why we should be so bothered about Wright. If you ask me – it's Tigre we need to sweat about."

Kristoph raised an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

"Now that Lady V's disappeared – and I still think it was Tigre that did away with her, mind you – now that she's gone, the Cadaverinni's falling into his hands. He's got complete control over it, and you know how that man is. Always quick to pick a fight."

LeTouse nodded. "He does. But he should be of no problem, other than he will prune and trim what needs to be pruned and trimmed. Only the dumbest of the lot are going to lose to him."

The man shook his head. "Maybe – but that was when Lady V's around to keep him in check. With her gone, he has access to everything, if not greater intelligence. Even an idiot can shoot a gun straight, LeTouse."

"I can't shoot a gun straight, Mr. Gaunt – are you calling me an idiot?" Kristoph laughed merrily at the embarrassed flush that crept up the man's face.

"Of course not Gavinne, you know what I mean."

"Indeed I do – and I don't think you need to worry too much about Tigre himself. More about...The Tin Man, yes?"

Gaunt frowned. "The Tin Man? What about him? I thought he was loyal to Bruno Cadaverinni – he's been running with him for what, a good forty long years, has it not been?"

"Now that Lady V is gone, he may rethink his allegiance," Another added quickly. Kristoph smiled indulgently, noting the quickened words. People like these, they never like to be left out of a conversation. It leaves them to confirm their own worthlessness, hence their tradition of interrupting where fewer words are asked for.

"Indeed," Kristoph allowed. "If he has not already done so. The Tin Man is loyal to Cadaverinni – but Tigre, as pointed out, is not a Cadaverinni, nor does he operate like one. The man is inelegant. He has no subtlety."

Irishion snorted. "Subtle? Like a sledgehammer, maybe."

Kristoph smiled, placing fingertips upon fingertips, the very picture of generosity and indolence. "That man – he is like that friend of my brother's. '_Wenn ich Kultur höre ... entsichere ich meinen Browning_.' That about sums them up, I believe." He chuckled at his own joke, and the others chuckled with him, even though he had it on best authority that none of them spoke a word of German. But then that is the good thing about being above.

When people look up, they see but you. When people want to climb up, they ask you for your hand. And when they speak to you, they look up at you, as only befitting their lower station. Kristoph absolutely adored this sort of people. They're easy to figure out – simple, without an agenda. They read like a book, and not a classical tale that twists the tongue. They read like Klavier's little rhythms – completely bland and without a single deeper meaning to call it's own.

They discussed some more on the possibility of the Cadaverinni splitting off entirely from internal differences. The Tin Man after all, had almost all the Cadaverinni members in awe of him, and his legendary self. The man is the James Bond of the underworld, with the marked exception that he is as scarred as Sir. Frankenstein himself. He may be no looker, and he doesn't have enough brains to clobber together a long enough sentence that relates Nebraska and Arkansas in a logical fashion – but when it came to street, The Tin Man knows what he's doing, and he does it well.

On the other hand, Tigre had been recruiting his own band of followers under the guise of working for Tender Lender, the subdivision of the gang that specializes in loans, and unfortunately – loan collection. Lady V had known of course, except perhaps not the fervor in which he had done so. By the last count, the Tender Lender division had almost as many as the main family itself, and if a full war is to break out between the two branches, none is going to be able to tell with precision who will win.

Kristoph stayed out of the speculations. He had no wish of having his words twisted and conveyed across the city in a different fashion, as words between Chinese whisperers are wont to do. Life is a big game of telephone. The Cadaverinnis he couldn't care less about, especially when the drug shipment is gone. Yes, the warehouse had been cleaned out, and apparently, Tigre must not have known the full worth of what had been taken, or he would indeed be 'Furio.'

A knock sounded on the door to interrupt their discussion, and Kristoph looked up lazily, like a cat nipping at someone else's milk. The door pulled apart to reveal one of LeTouse's men, those who looked like clones or cones, depending on which angle you view them from. He walks up to Kristoph, and at a nod – leaned down to whisper into his ear.

"There's been a problem on the street, boss."

"Mm?" Kristoph hmm'd indulgently. Inside, he wondered though, exactly why these people never seem capable of conveying their true meanings in five words and less. Wouldn't it be easy if the world is sorted into sticky colour tapes? Trouble, no trouble. Useful, probably not. Smart, stupid. Watch out, relax. Oh, if only the world comes in the four shades of fluorescent.

"What happened?"

"Lee contacted us a moment ago. He just bailed out Mr. Gavinne, his friend, and a man named Justice from the holding cell. Apparently, they were standing at the site of a huge accident – except there were guns and firearms all over the place. Constans is asking if we should talk the city into forgetting it, or just letting it be."

Kristoph hmm'd. That's a new development, someone going after his baby brother. He should probably be worried, should be breaking out a sweat, but Kristoph is a very neat man. Everything is in squares of four by four inches. If Klavier isn't hurt, then all is fine and well. Emotion in one square, business in another. If he is, then all is still fine and well. After all, if Klavier is hurt, it also follows that he would be dead, which meant that Kristoph would need to grieve, which is very sad, and he'll probably cry and be very upset, but is eventually – a waste of his time.

"Is Klavier and that Justice alright?" He asked.

"Yes sir. They were sent to the hospital for a bit, but they're fine now."

"Who was it?"

"We don't know, but we're guessing Furio."

"Excellent. Tell Constans to talk the city into forgetting it ever happened at all."

"Got it."

The man retreats like a slave in the imperial era – ass first – and then he's gone, disappearing off to do as he is bidden. Kristoph turned back into the conversation, ignoring the curious looks that he got from the rest of them.

"A little bug seems to have scampered up my driveway, gentlemen," He announced to a completely puzzled audience.

So Furio Tigre is thinking of revenge for the little mess with Lady V, was he? The man should be thankful that they had taken the lady away from him. If Viola Cadaverinni had stayed around any longer, if she had taken the time to look into her grandfather's books, she'll come to realize that the rumours that Furio Tigre had been siphoning the gang's funds? They were beyond true. Kristoph should know – he's been keeping an eye on all of them, a shameless voyeur of their every little misdeed he can lay hands on.

Perhaps he thinks that bringing back Lady V will further solidify his standing in the group then. No matter. Kristoph might not be terribly enraged at the idea of his brother being injured, but then he had no wish to be thought of as a pushover. Klavier gets injured all the time, whether it's because he's silly enough to get drunk and get into petty childish fights or because like now, he's been caught in the tracks of a speeding train. No one hurts Klavier deliberately and gets away with it though.

"I believe I do retract my statement earlier," He announced again, massaging the carved pattern of the chair's armrest. "If there is one thing our friendly little cub is guilty of – it's abject stupidity."

The men exchanged confused glance. Kristoph forged on, and in the next half an hour or so, started twisting the people around the room a little. He twists his words, lie a little, pretend a little. Mock a lot, scorn some – and by the end of it, the men, they wouldn't be able to tell you that it wasn't their idea in the first place. They will recite, in fiendishly similar ways, that Furio Tigre is unfortunately, even stupider than The Tin Man – which is stupid enough already. If a war erupts now, none of them will have the slightest desire to help Furio Tigre. Petty revenge, Kristoph knew – but then he hasn't had time to formulate a better plan yet.

When he does, the tiger will be severely lashed for overstepping his boundaries.

LeTouse, who had stayed silent all the while while Kristoph twisted them around, spoke up. "The Tigre, he isn't a problem then. What about Wright? He's still heading Gramarye. Do we agree, or do we start a big ruckus about it? If all the gangs object against it, sooner or later he'll have to step down to Armando or her."

At this, Kristoph shook his head. He swirled the wine their hostess offered, smiling as he did so. His entire plan hinged on the fact that Phoenix remains as head. The man might fancies himself hard and sharp – but Kristoph knew better. Never been a bigger softie than a man whose button you know to press.

"Leave him. He has his merits."

Gaunt nodded, stoic as always. "Very well then...We'll see how it plays out."

Another knock interrupted them, and this time Kristoph looked up without bothering to conceal his long-suffering sigh. Another report? When do these things end...

But the man standing at the doorway, smirking slightly – it's not one of his men. Not the impenetrable black all his men are dressed in, like men serving under the hand of God. It's a familiar blue colour under a familiar tuft of spiky hair – and behind him, the recognizable form of Diego Armando, practically the shadow of Phoenix. Between Diego's coffee colour and Phoenix's head, it'll be hard to mistake them for well...Anything else.

"Hello Mr. Wright," Espina greeted demurely, even though Kristoph knew Wright doesn't frequent the whorehouses of the area – whether for little business talks out of the cops' eyes or other services. "Enchanté. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Phoenix smiled.

"I'm here to talk business."

* * *

Klavier felt kind of like a babysitter. He lifted one foot to kick the door gently, then a little harder when it seems to make no sound at all. He can't kick too hard of course – after all, the thing looks flimsy enough that if he kicks it too hard, it'll probably collapse backwards and you know, break. And then what is he going to tell the man currently leaning against him like a sack of potatoes? Ja, I was the one – I was the one who dragged you out to a nightclub, got you shot at, exploded you, and THEN that was when I kicked your door down. Sorry. I'll shine your forehead for you in reimbursement, ja?

No, that's not likely to rub.

Klavier lifted his foot to give it another good kick, but this time before his boot can collide with the wood, it pulls apart.

"There you are Polly – do you have any idea what time it is!?"

It's the little fraülein from earlier, and she's spitting rage from the looks of it. The anger melted into disbelief though, as she took a good long look at her brother.

"Polly?" She gasped. "What happened to him!?"

"Shh." Klavier held up his unused arm to put a finger to his lip. He didn't want the man waking up – not after the trouble he had of getting him to fall asleep in the first place. "I only managed to calm him with some pills, ja?"

"You _drugged_ him?" She howled. The girl reached towards him, determined to snatched her brother right out of Klavier's hands. This amused him, because even though the man was small, he's surprisingly heavy. She wouldn't be able to lug him around for more than a foot.

"I had to, ja? The alternative is causing global warming by using up paper bags."

Trucy doesn't even bother deciphering his comment. "That's illegal. You can't just do something like that." She hissed out.

Klavier chuckled to himself – obviously the sibling similarities run deeper than just the tuft of neat brown hair. They've got the indignant expression of each other down pat when they're well, indignant.

"Don't worry – he won't die from it.:He joked. In fact, since it had taken him an entire hour to get between the hospital and here – having to explain at every stop why he's bringing an unconscious man around after all – the medication should be wearing off soon. It's almost five now, and give or take another half an hour, you'll start hearing birds chirping. That is, assuming the place you're living in hasn't killed them all with Carbon Monoxide.

"May I go in, fraülein?" Klavier asked prettily. "My arms are starting to get sore from carrying your brother around, ja?"

She growled, but as always, ladies know best. She moved out of the way and Klavier pulled the forehead in with him into the apartment. Once inside, he resisted the urge to blanch, which would be inhumanly rude. When's the last time he saw such a dump? Certainly not recently. Between the band starting to climb it's way through the charts, and Kristoph's elegant mansion, it's been a long long time since Klavier's been anywhere without thick muffled carpeting and soundproof walls. So long in fact, that sometimes he forgets that there is a great unwashed out there that might not live in the brightly lighted stage he does.

'I ah-- Nice place you have here, ja? Very homey." And that wasn't even sarcastic too. It definitely did look homey. If your idea of 'home' is those one room apartments with a roaster, that is. The girl's too smart to let the slight hesitation slide though, and the glare hitched up a notch.

"Thanks, Mr. Gavinne. I'll keep that in mind when I talk to our interior decorator, _ja_?" She snapped back, imitating his accent. This is unfortunately, yet another proof that protective females are troublesome. Though he doesn't blame her. If someone drags his brother back home scraped, bruised, and drugged, he's going to throw quite a few tantrums too.

Trucy pointed at the couch, and he dragged Apollo over and dropped him onto it ungracefully. She immediately took up one leg and throw it over the armrest of the couch unceremoniously.

Apollo made a blurry sound, the kind of cough that half-asleep people make, and Klavier stepped back, sighing. It's been a long day, eh, Herr Forehead? All Klavier wants to do is to crawl home and find a very thick mattress to disappear underneath. Trucy pounced on him though. No rest for the wicked and all that.

"What the hell happened to him?" She pointed a shaking finger at his shoulder where some spare piece of metal had sliced through. "How did he get like this?"

Klavier wiped at his face, massaging his lids. "Honestly? I don't know." At her pointed look, he said. "I can't tell you what I don't know, ja? It's probably revenge for something we've done to them, tit-for-tat and all that."

"I thought you said it won't be dangerous for him." She growled.

"I didn't say that – I said it's a possibility there will be a danger for him."

"There's kind of a big difference between a possibility and it happening on the first day itself."

At this Klavier chuckled, though it's a black sort of chuckle. A black hole of a laugh. "That's the thing...It's a one-off thing. It doesn't happen always – God knows it's never happened for all the years I've been around. Barfights yes. Gang fights, yes. I've seen a whole bunch of people break each other to bits with machetes and bats, but this is the first time we got pounced on like that."

Klavier paused, trailing off – as something hit him that had been bugging him all the while while they were rotting in the cell and being fixed up at the hospital. It only hit him now. Those guys were serious. It wasn't some kind of you-stole-my-girl act. They weren't carrying bats and chains, pretending to be the next Bruce Lee with a lot of nose wiping and shouting. They were carrying guns, and even though Klavier's repeatedly stressed how dangerous the underworld is to Apollo...The fact remains that you don't shoot people for nothing. They might be uncivilized humans, but they're not beasts.

Murder is only done when something big is at stake. It's done when people like Kristoph orders it. It's done when organized crime is organized. Klavier's only been on the fringes of it before, despite what he's been telling Apollo. It really is all swagger. Bullshit.

The moment he agreed to help his brother with the kidnapping of Viola Cadaverinni though, he had stepped across the line. He's crossed over from childish fights with tattooed men, swinging bottles and smashing people to bits. Now he's in where people run like clockwork. The underworld is one big wheel to produce profit. If you happen to get in the way, then they run over you and the next ten guys who happen to be in it's way.

Organized crime is indeed, organized.

"I don't know. It's probably just a violent reaction or something." He'll talk to his brother. Get his head straightened out – Kristoph's always been remarkably good at straightening people out. Too good in fact, some would say. But then Klavier's always liked the exciting life – it feels better that way, always living on the edge and taking a risk. One wrong move and you plunge fifty feet down into murky depths, and that kind of wind in your hair? It's fun? He'll go to sleep, and tomorrow he'll wake up grinning like Sweeney. Exciting life is exciting.

Trucy doesn't buy that explanation though. She just pinned him with a glare that's surprisingly serious, considering that just this morning she had been smiling cheerfully at him.

"Is it ever going to happen again?"

Now that's a question he can answer confidently. "Nein. It's not – trust me on this one, fraülein. Things like this, it is not a weekly Sunday gathering, ja? It won't happen again."

Not once he's ratted on his brother at least anyway. He'd been telling the truth. Apollo belongs in the more 'civilized' circles, and as long as no one drags him into it, and no one involves him, he should be okay. Klavier rolled his eyes at himself mentally. The guy would probably run screaming away from him the next time they met anyway.

"Fine. I'll take your word for it," She allowed at last. Apollo started muttering. The effects of the medication must have worn off, and pretty soon, the famed forehead wrinkled in concentration. Klavier had no idea why – but the man's forehead fascinated him. Maybe it's because Apollo is so...Dull. He just doesn't sparkle. So down-to-earth, so nothing-special, so boy-next-door. Maybe it's because of that that his forehead stands out so prominently-- No, that's just the fatigue talking. Stop obsessing over people's bone china pate, Klavier.

Apollo scowled, and the eyes, they visible try to pull apart. Except they're stuck together like glue, and it took him all of fifteen seconds to stretch them apart completely.

He squinted up at them. "Nnn...Trucy?"

"Hiya, Polly!"

Apollo snapped his eyes back shut. "C-Cheerful." He croaked out.

"Oh uh – Sorry. I mean, good morning, Apollo."

Klavier chuckled at that one. And done completely straight-faced too. Apollo opened his eyes again, letting out a little weary sigh. He sounded dry, or maybe a little like sandpaper. Overused sandpaper definitely. "Can I...Have some tea please?"

Trucy nodded at this and sped off to the kitchen, smiling a little happy smile. Maybe she was just worried when she had been snapping at him earlier. Klavier doesn't fault her. See above. While the girl was busy tinkering away in the kitchen noisily, Klavier plopped down on the stool beside the couch, pulling it up near the head of the couch.

"Good morning too, Herr Justice."

Justice's eyes went like closing shutters.

"I don't want to talk to you," He snapped, his voice grainy.

"Ja, but I am talking to you. 'Talking' is one way, after all. Now 'conversing', that's an entirely different ideal right there."

"I'm not conversing with you then."

Klavier smirked. Annoying little buster.

"I have this funny feeling like you are already doing so, ja?"

Those teeth gnashed. Realizing that he's not winning a five-year-old fight with Klavier, the man opened his eyes to pin him in one of those doom stares of his instead. He reminded Klavier of that man from that long ago X-men show, the one with toaster for eyes.

"You said something like that would 'probably' happen." He stated, his voice chords strained because his head is pulled backwards to get a better look at Klavier.

"Ja..." Klavier replied slowly. "And it 'probably' did."

"Your idea of probabilities is very screwed up." He announced.

"Well, if you consider that 'probably' means that it'll happen, it did. Just you know, maybe faster than we all thought."

They stayed silent to contemplate this gem of excruciating intelligence.

Finally Klavier cleared his throat, even as Apollo said sarcastically : "Gee, no problem – that caught me by surprise too."

He shot the lying man a look. "In case you didn't notice, Herr Justice – it caught me by surprise too. It's not like I arranged with CNN for it to happen on real time. So quit giving me this it's-all-your-fault bullshit."

The man said nothing. Then, "How's your friend?"

"He's seeing the coroner."

A pair of alarmed brown eyes stared at him. "The coroner? But it was just a broken arm – was it infected or--"

"No no," Klavier interjected quickly. "Not a coroner – _the_ coroner. He's a friend of ours. He's not the world's most brilliant doctor – or even a certified one - but he can patch up small wounds at least. We can't risk going to a clinic before the investigation dies down so..." He shrugged, the world's best explanation for everything being a well-placed one.

The tinkering sounds could still be heard in the kitchen, and new sizzling sound joined the spoons. Hot water bubbled.

"Is this what happens to you guys on a daily basis?"

"What? Oh dear God, no." Klavier actually winced at the idea of it happening everyday of his life. Imagining walking out everyday and coming back all torn and tattered and having five million stacks worth of paper trophies to sift through in order to explain exactly why, Prosecutor Gavin, were your fingerprints, your hand prints, and your lipstick marks and goodness knows what else all over the crime scene.

He'll be changing his designer clothes faster than they can tear it and it sure wouldn't look good on his credit card debts, he can tell you that. The idea had it's amusing merits though, and he chuckled.

"It's something that only happens once in a blue moon," He told the man. "Usually, the whole mob runs like a well-oiled machine. It's like a business, ja? You run business. We collect the protection fees. We run business, and we get the profits. We cross each others' paths sometimes, and that's when fights break out. Those either get resolved 'diplomatically', or with guns. But no, it doesn't happen all the time. It's just...An exception this time."

He neglected to mention that one tiny nitty bitty piece of fact that maybe they were the ones who threw the first stone this time. As much as he likes to remain neutral in the plane of socializing, it tends to leave a bad impression when you tell strangers you've known for a few days that yes, you blow buildings up as a night job. No, not even if you tell them it pays well.

"What do you guys fight over usually?" Apollo asked, looking genuinely interested. Not that look that people give him when they ask sometimes – that look that crosses between not wanting to know and being afraid to know. He just looks curious, is all – and Klavier liked that, if just a little. Simple, clean-cut people are just that much easier than dealing with winded bullshit.

"I'm not always around, but usually it's just turf. We're kinda like bitches that way," He laughed. "Territorial, you know? People cut into our turf, and shitville blooms when that happens. It's always about turf and who gets whose cut. Then there's dumb stuff like hangout joints too."

"Huh." Apollo huffed, looking a little disappointed. "That sounds like neighbourhood kids – with guns, maybe. Like Neighbourhood Kids, Premium."

Klavier smirked. "At least you don't have to pay to pin individual comments."

"Mmm."

Trucy reappeared in the room like magic, and handed a cup of blazing hot tea to her brother. Apollo blew at it, fogging up the place with steady steam, then down it went, probably scalding his tongue in the process. The effect seems to be lost on him, because all he does is sigh contentedly, like a stroked cat. Trucy looked expectantly at him.

"Thanks, Trucy." He uttered obediently.

"No problem at all!" She chirped. The clock on their fake (?) mantelpiece tick-tocked pointedly, and she yawned. "Well, I think I had better go to sleep. I stayed up waiting for you the whole night you know."

"Sorry." He pulled an appropriately sorry face.

"Hmph. Leave a sticky note the next time you're going to be troublesome please." She walked off to her own couch, precisely four feet away in the small cramped room, and tucked into it messily. "Oh, and I'm sure Prosecutor Gavinne won't need my help showing him out. It's a 'homey' place, after all." She added nastily.

Klavier winced. This is one girl that's going to grow up into one seriously scary lady. Infatuated, she obviously is. Squealing, she obviously is too. Doesn't stop the nasty streak. Siblings united in sarcasm, indeed.

"She's scary," Klavier confided in a whisper to Apollo. Apollo chuckled and sipped at his tea, sitting up.

"Wait 'til she starts threatening to make your stuff disappear."

More sips of the tea. Apollo continued their discussion despite the interruption. 'Aren't there more serious things you guys fight over? I mean – you guys are the mob, aren't you? I was under the impression that those deal in more than terms of candy."

Klavier smiled at the term. The sun's almost coming up now. Maybe about six? He's not gonna make it to work – that's for sure. Probably gonna get chewed out by Lana, but bah. He'll just remind her that she used to be part of all these too, and they're owls if nothing else.

"There's the occasional firearms trade. Those sell well. Some guys, they don't want to bother with the licenses and all – not with the new rulings."

Apollo nodded. He knows how it is even though he's never signed up for one before. You have to fill in only about an arm's width worth of file before getting a miserable lump of metal. And by arm's width, he meant putting your arms wide apart.

"Ja, so there are people...Not so keen in all these stuff. They want big guns. Show better to their friends on Saturday night, ya know what I mean? So yeah...Guns sell well. Sometimes fights break out over that too. Shipments from one gang to another don't happen often, but when it does, it usually comes down with a lot of behind-your-backs and bloodbaths."

"No drugs?"

"Nein," Klavier enthused. This at least, is one thing he's sure of – no one's been prosecuted for drugs for years. He should know. "It's really hard to get drugs into the city these days. The city hasn't seen a good supply of the white stuff for years, thanks to the whole new take of CA on it. The junkies in the city's been getting their fixes on crap sewer-crack for two whole cycles of the Earth. I can tell you something, Defense, with utterly no evidence necessary : If a shipment of it appears?" He whistled to make his point.

"What, Facebook?"

"Arms race," Klavier shot back.

Enough said.

"Mmm." Apollo sipped at the tea again, and Klavier's suddenly struck by how...Well, well he is. Considering that he had barfed all over Klavier's spare coat when Tigre's men went up like Sunday Barbeque Roast. He seemed fine, and he commented on it. Apollo only winced though.

"Can you stop mentioning that? I'm going to throw up all over you again."

"Ach."

"That was disgusting- I mean, I've never seen-- It was just so hot, you know? And I don't mean that in a kinky way. I meant it literally. The whole thing was just – the tires were scraping, and I thought I saw..."

Klavier nodded sympathetically. He knows. There are times when the mind – it supplements that which is not there. You might not see a man's dying face, but your mind sees it, and your mind tells you so.

"I just--" Apollo bit down on the tip of the cup. He looks pale. Klavier's reminded of himself, back when he just found out about his brother's ties with the mob and had been absolutely appalled at it. He had an idea back then. That his brother is actually an angel or a saint or some very big piece of white shit. That went down the hill like Jack and Jill though. He still loves his brother to death, just that he's no longer white shit - just shit.

"I signed up for it, didn't I?"

"Doesn't mean you can't freak out over it, ja? You _were_ partially responsible for them going up in flames. Zee wouldn't have made it alone."

Apollo shot him a dirty look, and Klavier shrugged. He's not his babysitter, as he seems to be repeatedly mentioning. Cold facts need to be cold, or someone will toast you later.

"I'm not going to judge," Apollo announced inexplicably. "That was – they did it first, didn't they? I mean, they were the ones who attacked us, so all we did was bite back. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

He sounded for all the world like he's asking Klavier to confirm his sensibilities for him. Klavier just smirked in a sad sort of way. "You're starting to see our way, Herr Forehead. Ja, they did it first. Ja, they're faceless people, a bunch of scarecrows you burn 'cuz they'll eat your brains otherwise. So ja as well – whoever strikes first, laughs best."

"I'm going to have nightmares tonight," Apollo announced. It's a stated fact.

Klavier shrugged at that too. "You'll probably keep having them too. Welcome to the circus, folks. Not the best place to be if you've got acrophobia – 'cuz when we fall, we fall hard here. So it's best to push people off before they can grab you on their way down."

The man smiled, leaning forwards and putting the cup of tea on a bunch of boxes at the other end of the couch. And why were there so many boxes in the house anyway?

"That's kind of sad, huh? I actually do have acrophobia."

"All the better to push people off first," He answered, utterly deadpanned. Apollo looked fine though – and Klavier had been worried about the guy going all green bean on him. Apollo's technically his paperwork now. Until his brother returns, or until his brother mentions one way or another what he had planned out for this guy, Klavier's responsible for him.

Klavier's noble that way, oh yes he is. Why not look out for the rookie and keep him under his wing? That sounds noble, except under that is...

_But he isn't, Klavier. Some would say in time he might come to be more useful than even you._

So this man is going to be more useful than he is, huh? Well, that hurt. That really hurt – having your own brother said that to your face. So Klavier will wait, and he'll see – exactly what about Apollo Justice, Lord of everything plain and unbecoming, gangly and pathetic – exactly what this man has that Klavier Gavin doesn't.

He smiled at Apollo. "Why don't you go to sleep, Apollo? You'll feel better when you wake up, ja?"

Apollo nodded weakly at him, yawning. He's tired. Klavier's tired too. He climbed back up and saluted the man jokingly. "Take as long as you need to recover, ja? When you're fine – we'll put you in the firm and get you working."

Knowing the man, it probably wouldn't be long. Take three days at the most.

"Okay."

"You know how to get to the prosecutor's office, right? Assuming you can cycle there."

He shot him an irritated – and slightly hurt – look. "I can take the bus, thank you very much. I go there all the time to get stuff done."

"Ja, if you say so."

Klavier nodded cordially at him, and Apollo returned the favour. They never shook hands. That's for friends.

He walks out, and then his mind is already spinning.

First layer, there is Furio Tigre. The man wants revenge, and by some ways, had managed to find out that they were the ones who had sank the building. That meant that he needs to be taken care of, him and that big head of his. Klavier doesn't feel like it now – he's tired and bushed – but tomorrow, when he wakes up, he'll be in the mood for it again. More hacking and sawing and shooting and biting the bullet. He'll wake up feeling utterly refreshed, and out for blood. He'll get Kristoph to finish the little kitty off, or better yet – do it himself.

Once he's done with that, he'll get some place to wash Apollo Justice off on. Get him settled in the firm, and then he'll polish the kid up on what not to do in say, a discussion with other bosses. For example, never reveal anything they're doing. Those kind of no-brainers. Then the only time they'll meet is through the courtroom, which suits Klavier just fine. That Justice kid is such a stick anyway.

* * *

**[Insert comments here about how this is a lot of work. Some emo bullshit, and then I will swear never ever to upload another chapter, despite saying that two chapters ago.]**


	7. VI : Boomerang

Sorry about the late update, readers~ Been having much fun filling stuff for the kink meme. xD

* * *

_Six : Boomerang_

_-_

Phoenix drew out the cigarette and blew a small tendril of smoke out. It coils, twisting onto itself, before floating out of the window to pester the moonlight or some other small bird still awake. The rest of the smoke he swallows – not exactly swallow, because smoke is a substance that isn't solid – but the close enough equivalent anyway. It warms him from the inside, and it's like drinking a whole cup of hot, albeit murderous, cocoa.

They had moved from the hall to the second floor parlor at a flick of Kristoph Gavinne's arrogant hand. The other gangs had all dispersed, though none can mask that curious expression on their face. If Gramarye and Gavinne is doing 'business', it might well lead to something disastrous for them, like one swallowing the other. If that happened, the balance of L.A's turf would turn right to the victorious gang...And that would be the end of them.

Still they left. You don't argue with Kristoph Gavinne after all, when he's pinning you with that eerily cold glance of his. When Phoenix sees Kristoph, he's always had this urge. The urge to walk up to the man, and peer into those eyes – maybe even shout down it, and see if his voice echoes in the empty space inside.

The window's open, so the light plays a little onto the marble chessboard between them. Kristoph lifts one groomed hand and move his white knight forward, and from the way it glistens – it looks like he made the move more to let his knight reflect light than for any obvious purpose.

"So tell me, Wright. How does it feel to get something you've been wanting for so long?"

Phoenix tucked his cigarette into his next finger, and lifted his black knight to mimic Kristoph's. "It was a long time in coming anyway."

"How so?"

"You mean you forgot to spy on that one?" He sneered. Kristoph's eyes are everywhere. He's the press of the underworld. The eye in their sky. 'The Gentleman' is not above gentlemanly activities, like voyeurism.

"Not really, but enlighten me anyway."

"They've been disgruntled, is all. The gang's been nothing but stagnant ever since Zak left for Sicily. No growth, no nothing."

"Ah, the Wall Street isn't looking good then." Kristoph joked.

The black knight moved again, glowering down at Kristoph's white pawn. "Well," Phoenix allowed generously. "He's been the boss for a long long time now."

"A long and fruitful life then. I must wipe at my eye."

"Six years," He forged on with a small smirk. "That's a long long time, don't you think? Considering that most of us either last a month or forever."

"Seven years, Phoenix. I think I can count quite well, considering that was when I was excised from the group." Kristoph stated flatly.

"Left."

'Excised."

They don't bother bringing it up. It's a long long story anyway, enough to fill a tome-thick biography of their lives.

"Excised," Kristoph repeated stubbornly. "He made a choice, I believe, when he received the gang from Magnifi. Who the underboss would be was his decision to make – and he chose you."

The barely concealed anger, as always, is there. There's something creepy about talking with people who don't show emotions on their faces. Just like Kristoph Gavin. His face is a complete mask – when he speaks, no matter how violent or cruel those words are, his face never changes. A slight teasing smile, a calm, paternal sort of demeanor that simply confirms the inner you that believes he is, and will always be, beyond you in everything – that's all.

You can't conceal yourself completely though – no one's as good as that. When he speaks, you can hear the venom lashing about, rolling around like poison in a glass you're swirling.

"Ah, but then now that he's gone, you're on the run for one of the longest one around, aren't you?" Phoenix asked him, cocking one eyebrow. "Kitaki announced that he wanted to go straight – and I still think that's hilarious – which means that once he's gone, five will be down to three."

"Gavinne, Gramarye, Rivales. Three." Kristoph scratched the wood lightly, and Phoenix is struck by how...Bland their banter is. Like dancing. Throw it back, throw it forth. Not going anywhere – has it always been like this with him? Yes.

Phoenix sat back from where he had been leaning forward, pondering the chessboard with one hand tucked under his stubbly chin.

"I think that's enough meandering, don't you think? Let's talk business."

"Let's." He announced graciously, sitting back himself. "I never did quite like house calls."

Phoenix extracted his ever-present notebook and a pen. Somewhere in the house, he hears giggling – it's just so quiet that you can hear mice padding – and Armando must be working his magic with the ladies again. Even one-eyed, he's got more luck than Phoenix ever did with ladies. Phoenix scrawled down a figure on a page, ripped it out, and slid it across the table.

Kristoph slid it off and inspected it, arching one blonde eyebrow. "My, what's this? Your identification number? I'm touched, Wright."

Phoenix grinned. "You wish, Gavinne. No, that's my price."

"Ah." He snorted delicately. "Wouldn't it make more sense to tell me in the first place what you are selling? For such a sum, I hope it's a little more than sticks and stones, Wright."

"Well, it's a little more than sticks and stones, that's for sure."

"And that's...?"

At this, Phoenix's face dissolved into a visible scowl. Meandering again, that's what Kristoph does best. Always beating around the bush and never to the point. "Won't you cut the bullshit out? You know as well as I do what I'm selling you. You can't not know – after all, that was your men sneaking around the place to see if the shipment's been completely taken, wasn't it?"

"Ah, you're the one who had taken it then.'

"As if you don't know," He growled. "Why do you insist on this...Act of yours, Gavinne? We all know what you are like. You'll strike a man between the shoulder blades with an axe if you think it'll get you what you want."

Kristoph righted his glasses and chuckled merrily. "Ah, but that's the fun part about it, isn't it? Life's a big game of make-pretend, Wright. We never did grow up from the times when a sandbox is the world. All it did was replace that sandbox with a bigger sandbox, with more mud."

Phoenix smiled thinly. "Glad to see you consider yourself part of the world then, Kristoph."

The man chuckled again, and raised his wineglass to his lips. There's a merriment in his eyes that Phoenix doesn't like. It reeks of expectancy – like he had expected this all along, and had planned something appropriate for the occasion. That sip of wine looks too much like a farewell drink.

"So we've established that you were the one who had raided amidst the fire. What then, do you plan to do with the shipment?"

"Sell it," Phoenix shot back.

"To me? Why not the masses then? You'll make more profit processing the thing into billable goods for the general drug scene."

But that's the thing – and it hangs in the middle of the air like one of Diego's smelly blends. They can't. The Gramarye gang had suffered so much losses thanks to Zak and his hypocritical ways that they might as well be flat broke where their bank account is concerned. Zak and his high-handed ways had seen to that. This? Unsatisfactory. We're gangs, Wright – but that doesn't mean we have to abandon honour. And Phoenix would gnash his teeth every time he hears that.

Yes, Phoenix has honour too – but there's a fine difference between being honourable, and being a downright coward. Some days he can't tell which Zak Gramarye is – probably the latter.

Anyway, where was he before he rambled off in the wrong direction? Oh yes, they're broke. Newsflash. Phoenix Wright is broke – or rather, the gang he's heading is. Now why doesn't that surprise anyone? But then the fact remains – processing crack doesn't come cheap. You need the manpower, and then you need the hideout for it. With CA the way CA is and the new chief being a general pain in everyone's ass, it'll take a lot to run the whole operation. Money that the gang doesn't have, obviously.

Kristoph picked up on it like a bitch smelling a new bone.

"Ah, but then. Could it be because...The gang doesn't wish to get into the drug business?" His smiled turned patronizing, and no one in the world will tell you otherwise – Kristoph Gavinne knows. "That must be it, mm, Phoenix? There couldn't be any other reason now, would there?"

Phoenix flashed him a flat smile to mirror his own.

"Yeah, that's right."

Stripped of his chance to gloat, Kristoph only settled back into his armchair and fold his arms, looking smug. "Ah, such honourable people. But then what makes you so sure that I would want to get into the drug scene?"

At this, Phoenix snorted. Oh, you mean, you killed this guy, risk a war in your hands, because you don't want the drug shipment floating around and up for grabs? Why else would you kill Zak Gramarye if it isn't to prevent him from stopping you when the time comes to snatch the shipment away from the Cadaverinnis? Phoenix twirled the black pawn around in his fingers.

"Oh I don't know. Call it a hunch. I had another reason to want Zak gone – you don't seem to have any other than to get him out of the way."

"Yes, and it seems I miscalculated there, hmm? You turn out to be more trouble than Zak could ever have been."

"If you cut off it's head, two will sprout in it's place," He quipped utterly deadpanned. Kristoph said nothing, only swirling his wine some more.

"Indeed."

"Now." Phoenix leaned forward, not even caring if it let his eagerness showed anymore. He wanted the drug shipment out of his hands, and the money in the bank. With it, he'll restore the thing back into shape, back into the way it had been back in Magnifi's days – you could say he promised himself he'll get that done for someone. If Gavinne is going to make a ton of profit from their little deal, fine – he couldn't care less. It could have easily been zero cents for them. If Kristoph had gotten to the shipment before them, they would be leaving empty handed.

"Let's not procrastinate. The price. Do you agree to it?"

Kristoph swirled it some more and replaced the glass beside the chessboard. He sat back and glanced up dreamily at the roof, the picture of a daydreaming gentleman right out of some gushy woman's magazine. It's not fooling Phoenix though. The man must be running calculations like a train. Chug-a-lug-lug. Profit? Probably worth it, because he sat back up and met Phoenix's eyes.

"Very well then."

Phoenix raised a suspicious eyebrow. That was too easy. He had expected Kristoph to haggle to the bitter end – after all, he really is the one holding all the cards. The shipment does nothing for Phoenix other than to pepper himself with more crimes if the police caught up to them. Instead, Kristoph gave him a lazy, almost pleasant smile.

"Yes, Phoenix, very well. I'll pay that price of yours."

"You will?" He returned, frowning in suspicion. "No strings attached?"

"No, no strings attached....Well, for now."

Phoenix nodded. That was much better. The world just isn't right when Kristoph isn't being sneaky and all manners of bastardity. "You're not getting a liver of mine though," He joked – a tiny smile breaking in his own face. With the drug shipment gone, the next step will then be able to progress, preferably without crossing this man's path again.

Kristoph merely rolled his eyes at him and said scornfully. "You can keep your liver to yourself – I prefer healthier organs."

"It can't be worse than your wino liver – at least I only do grape juice."

"Wine has antioxidants," Kristoph shot right back. The white knight went forwards for one last move, and then the chessboard is abandoned as the both of them stood, signifying the end of the conversation. "Very well then Wright. I think that about sums up our little 'business' deal? The pier in three days, I believe – I'll contact you when I decide."

Phoenix nodded. "The pier in three it is then."

Then they shook, and the deal is done.

* * *

"Argh, Jesus Christ!"

"Hold still."

"Hold still!? Hold my still ass still you mean – what are you trying to do, kill me?"

"I said." The hands on Zee's elbow clamped around it like a hard vice. "Hold still."

"And if I don't?" He retorted, snapping back at him.

"Then you can walk around with a broken arm and explain to the officers why you look like a survivor of Zombieland."

Oh. Good point.

Zee bit down on his lower lip as the arm got moved into place. It sure isn't the neatest job on Earth, and he's not even sure if it's going to reattach at all. But like Klavier said – they're not going to Meraktis until his brother gives them an a-okay for it. The city's just witness three whole cars smoking and crushed in the middle of the highway. Including the truck and Zee's own baby, that would be five – and some ratass politician is going to have to make a speech on it for the general public.

I'm sorry folks, but that was just drunken driving. Here, have five campaigns to prevent alcohol. What's that you say? They're not going to work? Have five more anyway – they're paid with your tax money anyway, so I don't really care.

Things are bound to get dug up by the journalists. They're kinda like hounds, and between the whole band thing and the whole mob thing, Zee doesn't know which kind of paparazzi he hates more. Rock Band Paparazzis are tenacious, and they like to run after your cars with pickaxes. On the other hand, they're not awfully concerned with getting information – because what they don't have, they'll just make up anyway. Fill in the holes of the explanation with their own explanations.

On the other hand, the Politic Journalist likes their facts. They like it so much that they never ever leave your doorsteps. They're scarier than a whole herd of on the double bloodhounds, sticking their mics up your nose like they wanna dig your nose clean of all that booger you been hiding up it. Those don't make up so much stuff, and at least things they report are only about fifty percent twisted out of context. Doesn't make do for the--

"_OW!_"

"I thought I told you to hold still."

"I can''t hold still when you're twisting my arm around," Zee snapped back. "And I was daydreaming right until you decided to crack my elbow backwards."

"Hmm." Enrich examined his elbow like it was a unattached limb, which concerned Zee greatly, to the great expense which he could be concern with anyway. The thing doesn't look too good. It's all...Dunno. Purple. Kind of like Klavier's coat? Yeah. Except a little more bloodstained. Zee's ain't no biology expert, but he can tell his arm don't look too good – and he probably shoulda thought a little harder before cracking the boot apart with calcium carbonate.

"Alright...If that's all there is..." Enrich wanders off and return with a huge roll of bandages. He twisted Zee's arm into a satisfactory position (Which just looks all the more broken to Zee, but ah, what the hell does he know.) and started looping the white stuff around it until his arm looks like the return of the great mummy. (And he don't mean that one with the apron.)

"What, no cast?" He dragged his arm upwards, winced at the dulled pain. It still feels unattached.

"I'm a _coroner_," Richie stated flatly. "The only people I treat are dead people – and those, as you obviously know – do not actually need casts."

"Yeah, yeah. So what do you do if they broke something?"

"I cut them apart."

Oh. Yeah. Coroner, right.

"Damn, I wish Nail knows. He's gotta be a million times better than you when it comes to first aid." He commented, attempting to move the arm. Nail's the last member of their little band – at least until Klavy-davy-boy finds them a second guitar. Nail's the nice guy though, can't stomach blood – so they neglected telling him about the whole gee-Klavier's-brother-is-a-gang-leader-and-so-are-we-all thing. Enrich's kinda a given. They need him to erase records of ah...'Things' left behind in dead people's body.

Enrich just looked at him. "You'll rethink that when you die. I'm better than him at cutting up the dead," He stated, completely deadpan. Zee chuckled. His band mates are really the only ones Enrich have the guts to talk to like that. Anyone else, and he wilts on the spot. An algae of conversation, if at all.

"Thanks, but no thanks. What's the chances of this arm going back to normal?"

"No really, Zylinder. I think you should consider your mortality rate a priority – seeing as it's quite high. Have you consulted your insurance?"

"Christ in a can," He swore. "You sure are naggy, you know that, Rich?"

Enrich flashed him a look – a hurt one, or at least as hurt as the guy's face can get. "I'm only concerned about your financial straits. You can't have that much left over, considering how you spend your money. At last count, your debt rate, including the newest addition of the car seems to be--"

"Okay, okay, I get it. Insurance policy." He said quickly. He doesn't want to hear the magical D word, especially since he isn't even technically in it. He might spend lotsa money – but hey, he's got it to spend right? Between the band raking in and his day job and Gavinne's generous paycheck, he's got plenty to spend and worked hard for every single cent. "You're selling policies or something? Why the sudden interest?"

Enrich shot him a sarcastic look. "Hi, I'm here to sell you insurance. I'm also the guy who holds the scalpel. Would you buy?"

"Uh, probably not."

"Then rethink the solution before submitting your answer."

"Right, right," Zee sighed. No one to put you in place like Richie. Not Zee's favourite person in the world, but hey, he comes in handy sometimes. He swung his arm again. "You still haven't answer me – how likely is this thing gonna bounce?"

"If by bounce you mean recover, here are the facts. That arm's broken. I just fixed it back into place, which you've just dislodged by swinging it back and forth. There's an 80% chance that the thing is going to reattach, but reattach poorly. 20% says that it'll get infected, and I get to operate on you at last."

Zee blinked. "Where's the 'fully recover' percentage?"

"What's 80 + 20?"

"Uh..." Damn. He can't remember anymore. When's the last time he gotta count? That would be in college, right before they stuff schematics in his face and he got so high he forgot everything he learned in high school. "Hundred."

"You have your answer."

"Gee." Zee sighed and poke the arm vaguely. It looks like a eggplant extending out of his shoulder, but who's he to complain? At least he didn't get shot or anything. "But thanks though – you're one in a billion, Richie. Don't know how I'll survive shoot ups without you."

"You can start by rewarding me with your absence." Enrich announced, moving over to his pristine sink. There's not a single trace of blood in the place, not after Richie wipes up every single spot he happens to lean on. Zee has no doubt that once he leaves this place, the man's gonna spray the place down with disinfectant and scrub every corner like a pesticide-ducky commercial.

Zee climbed up from where he had been sitting on the metal thingy they use to cut dead people up on, and despite the fact that dead bodies aren't new to him, it still kinda gross him out to be sitting on it. He waited until Richie's done washing his hands obsessively before pouncing on him with the real reason he came here instead of to some obscure abortion clinic to get his arm fixed up.

He grinned a hopefully convincingly friendly grin. "Hey Richie?"

The man deposited his gloves into the waste bin, before turning around to look at him. "Yes?"

"Uh, chances are you know, this time tomorrow – you might get a bunch of guys sent in..." Enrich nodded. The hair that they bleached for him (As If Richie will allow his hair to be bleached without force. He's probably worried about a brain tumour or something) bobbed with it.

"And what of it?"

"Can you check if there's a body amongst them for me?"

Enrich looked at him expressionlessly. "Which one?"

"Yeah, it's a man by the name of Furio Tigre..."

His expression hardened. "The person who runs Tender Lender?"

Zee nodded enthusiastically. Furio Tigre, the guy with the weird red skin. He's the main reason he took up the job for Gavinne, blowing down the alliance and all. He wasn't too keen on the whole thing, since it's the biggest job he ever had to do – and the more bombs you plant, the easier it's gonna be traced. Except...Furio was there. How can he pass up a chance to get back one on that guy? Score one for Zee, zero for da tiger.

"Why do you want me to check on him?"

Zee smirked at this one. He's got a ready made answer for this, and it's a plausible and honest one too. "He's the guy who's after me and Klavier, yeah? We kinda had a hand in taking down his lady love...So he's after us at the moment. If he's dead with the sandwich men, then our troubles will be over, yeah?"

"Why didn't I hear about this from Gavinne?" Enrich frowned, looking suspiciously at him. He extracted his ever present notebook out and started skimming down it, examining some sort of list. Zee's seen it before – Richie keeps every single conversation he has with people neatly jotted down in shorthand. Apparently, it organizes his life, whatever shit that means.

He snapped it shut. "And how did Tigre even knew in the first place that you guys were the one who blew the place down?"

"He probably have spies or something," Zee retorted defensively. This guy can sure be a pain sometimes. Talking to him is like talking to a cop, even though he's one himself. Did you, or did you not do it? Where were you on the 20th of July? Were you eating? Were you sleeping? What did you see? What did you hear? Were you breathing at the time? "Those aren't that uncommon, you know? Happens all the time."

"I was under the impression that your double-life was suppose to be a secret," He answered coldly. "Secrets, by definition of Oxford, is --"

"Look!" Zee cut him off with a shout, earning him a startled look from the Guy with No Spine. "What the hell is your problem? I ask you to check if one guy is KO'd or not, why do you have to gimme all that shit? If you're not gonna do it, just say so already, you irritating bitch."

"I just think there's more to your association with this man than meets the eye, that's all." He shot back defiantly.

"Yeah? Really? Awesome – 'cuz I care what you think, I really do."

The two glared at each other. Zee just kept glowering until his eyes started to water from staring at the shorter guy. In the end, as usual – Enrich gave up first. He's always the first to give up in any sort of confrontation. Hates arguments more than anything on Earth, even though his every nagging word is just platform to goad more arguments.

"Look. Fine, I'll tell you if the guy shows up, alright?" He sighed out in a resigned tone.

Zee broke into a grin, walked over, and looped an arm around the shorter man. "That's a good Richie."

'Come. Sit. Roll over."

He grinned and ruffled his hair, even though he knows the guy hates it. "Seriously, thanks a million. Just drop me a line if he's dead, okay? I'll trade you my best beer the next time you drop around."

"Which you will immediately take away because I don't drink of course," He commented dryly, but it's with a small smile. "Now then, you've gotten what your objective is, right? Shouldn't you be going to the racing track? I thought there was a round there today."

"Yeah, yeah, on my way. And this time, I'm so going to turn my luck around." Zee announced it with a grin, unlooping the arm around Enrich and saluting him. It's a prank thing – left over from the band's mucking around days. Enrich never sees the humour in this sort of situation though, and only commented.

"Good luck wasting all your money."

"Don't jinx it." Then with a pat of Richie's shoulder, he's off. There sure is a race today, and boy, is he going to bet. He'll win the money right back to get a newer, flashier car in fact – and not a single word on probabilities from Enrich's side is going to change his mind. It's really just a game anyway, right? Right.

Before he left though, Enrich stopped him.

"Wait," He ordered in that quiet, no-nonsense tone of his. "Wash your hands before you leave."

"Huh?"

"It's a dirty world out there," He said mysteriously.

Zee gave him an odd look. Weirdo. With a capital W. He washes his hands though, and then he's off for real this time.

* * *

Viola Cadaverinni is stewing in the cellar, but at least she's simmering well. If she's a stew, there's no doubt that someone will open the lid up and exclaim : Such a well boiled stew! This is one bowl of anger that's been simmering for a long long time indeed. She's heard everything she wants to hear from the people who guard her doors. Kristoph might be a man of many discretion, but his men are men of just as many indiscretion.

They've been at the door all day long, talking and talking and talking. First she hears someone stomping upstairs. It's the kind of mansion where if someone screams down the hall, you can hear it on the other side of the floor. Someone had been stampeding up earlier, and judging from the tiny slice of light from the cellar grooves – it's very early in the morning. Give or take seven in the morning and nothing more, nothing less.

The voice had started shouting in a foreign language. Following that, a new pair of rednecks had exchanged shifts with the guard on duty. These two proceeded to talk, and goodness knew how loud they talk – because Viola can hear them all the way inside where she had been trying to fall asleep and not think about how long she's still got in this prison of hers. The moment they started talking though, all thoughts of sleep were dispel from her mental faculties.

"_...I heard...Tigre..."_

"_Is that....Road?"_

"_Yeah...Gavinne...."_

"_Spitting mad, eh?"_

It wasn't enough to make sense, especially not with her slightly impaired hearing. That accident from years ago had hit hard, loosening a couple of screws and impairing her hearing. She never did caught who did it to her, nor did her grandfather – but at least there's something to be thankful over it. She did met Don Tigre after all, and from what she seems to be hearing, her Don Tigre not only survived the shot. He's bounced back, and now her beloved is retaliating on her behalf.

Viola is not Rapunzel, simply waiting for a chance to let down her hair, some anti-feminist heroine just waiting for her knight in shining armor – but she can't help just the slightest surge of pride for her husband. He's such a useful and accomplished man, and she's proud of him. Soon, he'll find some way to rescue her – she just knows it. That is, if she doesn't find a handy bottle of poison and dispose of her captors first.

* * *

Viola Cadaverinni is still stewing in her cell.

No one's come except to hand her food and hand her drinks. They've somehow managed to maneuver a toilet into the cellar – just another proof of how remarkably hospitable Gavinne can be when he wants to be of course. He had visited her earlier to 'inquire' to her sensibilities, but you can see from the look of his face that he's not paying attention. That gleam in his eye unnerved her – more so because it's not directed at her. It's directed at a spot just beyond Viola's shoulder, and there's a look there that she doesn't like. Kristoph Gavinne isn't a master at hiding his expression, whatever he thinks. He had come in, chat a little, and left. It still left Viola worried though.

Especially since the news he brought was worse than ever. He mentioned meeting The Tin Man, more to gloat than anything else. This greatly worried Viola, and even more so because...If the Cadaverinni gang is in one piece, shouldn't Furio be the one he's meeting?

The guards had nothing new to add to her archive of knowledge of the outside world, save that they're curious how Tigre found the person who caught Viola. Nothing new. Nothing new at all.

So Viola Cadaverinni stews.

* * *

Viola Cadaverinni is still stewing.

It's the third day since she heard about Don Tigre from the guards. Things had been quiet since. She's still worried.

Viola had pressed her ear to the door this morning, so hard it hurts. Her ear had rebelled against it, and when she pulled it off, it had been red and raw and painful. What she had heard was worth all the pain in the world though. Viola hadn't heard much, couldn't if she wanted to, but she heard made her insides turn : A drug shipment.

Viola knew what the state of the state is like. Ever since the new senate had voted in the 'no drugs, no crime' policy, CA's been working like bees for their queen. Equally hardworking, and equally unappreciated. Buzzing here and there, they had made drugs harder than ever to cross the city borders – and for there to be more than one shipment in the city at the same time is just well...Unlikely, and that's if you're an extremely cynical person who likes to doubt everything from the sky to the moon.

There's only one drug shipment she knows of and she knows it well. About a month ago, was it? They had been tipped off about a movement of drugs inside the city. It had been from the underworld network – those untraceable, faceless kind that most often than not, is more trustworthy than so-called 'trusted' sources.

The Tin Man had related it to her, and she had acted on behalf of her grandfather : She had The Tin Man intercept the shipment, and they had taken it. For some reason, all the men guarding that thing had been well...Strange. They didn't look like gang members. In fact, they had surrendered the drugs without so much as a flicker of protest, and they had actually looked puzzled as to why Viola could possibly want what they had. The little boxes had contained everything they wanted, and perhaps even more than they had dared to hope for.

Pure drugs. Very very pure drugs, almost 90%, if their local old man is to be trusted.

And now that Viola is safely put away, suddenly talk of the drug shipment resurfaces? Is that really such a coincidence? Or is another engineered thing? Come to think of it, her grandfather too...

No, she's thinking too much. Even if Kristoph Gavinne somehow lays hands on it, so be it. It'll be found eventually, and then she can get it back when she leaves here. In the mean time, who did he hope to fool? His men will be torn apart the moment they lay hands on the shipment by the holding gang. Kristoph might rule his little tribe with a iron hand, but even the iron hand cannot claw at everything. Like water, his underlings will slip away from him if he sends to pointless suicide missions like this.

It did left Viola wondering though. Exactly who had been the one who had moved the drugs in in the first place? How had it been moved into the city? And for the matter...Was it a good idea for them to take it in the first place?

* * *

The Tin Man is what everyone calls him, and the Tin Man is what he calls himself. No one really knows how the man came to be known as the Tin Man, but he's been that for a long time, as long back as in the 00's. He was Arkansas by birth and Arkansas growing up, but some time around puberty he showed his manliness by bashing a guy's head in in a barfight over his right to be there. The Tin Man had enough sense to make a run for it, but was picked up fifty-two miles northeast of the town, dehydrated and just glad someone found him.

He got a couple of million years, and he can't tell you if you ask 'cuz he never did figure out the numbers. Confused his damned cereal number with the dates. They sent him down to Nebraska to do time, and prison did _his_ head in too. By the time he came out, he could count just far enough to tell you he's on the uglier side of the thirties, but that's about it.

The Tin Man is invaluable to the offices of the good Cadaverinnis, has been since the days when Bruno Cadaverinni was still well enough to hit the streets sometimes to 'straighten' people out. He's fearless, and that's really all there is that made him so special. He's not amazing by ways of muscles – they have the donkeys for that. He's definitely no Einstein either – that's Daryan for the mob, for now anyway. So what makes him so special?

One thing – fear. And his lack of it. Maybe it was just that his brain isn't adequately equipped to generate the feeling of fear, or maybe it's just that he's those strange and unnatural individuals who just...Doesn't compute fear. Either way, if you want a guy who goes in there first, who stands up like a real slim shady, who shoots the glass of the bank – then baby? Tin Man's your man. He's thick as tin and as fearless as it goes.

Thinking is not what he's made for though. The Tin Man falters when it comes to thinking, and when he's talking to people who twist their words – like now - he gets confused.

"Can you say that again?" He rumbled at Kristoph Gavinne. A flicker of annoyance passes through the man's face, too quick for Tin to register, and then it's gone. A fleeting shadow that's gone a-galloping into the sunset.

"I said, are you sure there are enough people here to do the job?" He repeated. He's smiling a hard smile down with Tin at his men, who are busy loading just about everything from axes to guns into the trucks. There's still plenty of space in there though – every man's been warned not to bring too much or too many, 'cuz they're planning to take some stuff home.

"I think it's enough. The Gramarye...I've heard. They ain't no big piece these days."

"Perhaps not, but this is rather a small force," Kristoph observed, turning an eye around the place. Some might call the look on his face 'baleful', but then Tin's neva understood hard words like 'baleful'. Baleful? You mean yarn, right? He understood insults when he hear 'em though, and he growled in answer.

"Maybe, but they're good boys. They know what to do in a situation – those Gramarye kids are just that, kids. They've never been in a good fight before, they're not gonna survive long against us."

What Tin heard is that they got 'em a new lieutenant, a new general for the ranks to ride them out to the Blitzkriegs around here. Tin hasn't heard how good he is, but he heard he's pretty good. Still, the kid's new around the block and Tin? Tin's been around for a good many years, maybe before the kid could even spell T-I-N properly. He's seen it all, done it all, and because of it, he's grown a head that's gotten it all too : A little big sometimes. Not magnificently, idiotically prideful, but still prideful nonetheless.

"We'll see," Kristoph commented airily.

Tin turned around to frown at Kristoph. There's something he don't get, and he don't think it's only 'cuz he's no Einstein. "That's another thing, Gavinne – why did you come to us about the drug thing? We thought it was gone for good when they came and took it away, we did."

"Mmm?" He raised an eyebrow, kinda like he's dismissing the thing. It's an expression that Tin doesn't like. It reeks of a man stalling for time, and it reeks of dishonest men. "Why not? Shouldn't that be the correct question?"

"Why not what?"

"Why not—No, never mind me."

"If you've got something to say, you say it," Tin snapped. Can't stand these folks.

Gavinne shrugged nonchalantly, and continued smiling down at Tin's men the way a general inspects his troops before they go a-marching off to their dooms.

"It's just that you can't not know about how Phoenix Wright tattled on me. I worked with him to remove Zak Gramarye...And how does he repay me? He calls the police on me. I don't like backstabbers, Tin," He sighed dramatically. "I don't like being backstabbed at all."

"Ain't what you doing the same thing?" Tin asked him, frowning his thick brows together. The question seems to genuinely have Kristoph flummoxed though, and he chose not to answer. There's nothing but classic blunt to put the plastic in the right box.

Instead, he said, "And the drug, it's yours, is it not? Your Lady...She doesn't drive so hard a price, I believe."

"Ah." Tin gets it now. It's just business. Lady V's known to be less harsh than the Firebird is when it comes to sales and markets. He knows now – he gets it. Kristoph probably just wants the drugs back to Viola. That way, he saves a buncha fresh green bills, and he saves the men needed to take it away from the Firebird forcefully. After all, it wasn't like Gavinne's men are good when it comes to fighting. Most of them – like Kristoph – are as sneaky as peas.

And don't forget he doesn't get the bad blood too.

"It looks to me like you got yourself the better part of the deal, Gavinne."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, it's so."

"It's your imagination, Tin Man – trust me on this one. Those drugs belonged to you in the first place, did it not? Yes, they're absolutely rightfully yours. What I'm doing here is helping you get them back, what's wrong with that?"

There's nothing wrong with that, which is precisely what pisses Tin off. In their world no one does things for no reason, and somehow...Is it really as simple as that? All Kristoph wants is a discount? Tin can't tell – and all this thinking is hurting his brain like nothing else in the world is. Sighing, he massaged his brow.

"Right. Well, I'll just take your word for it Gavinne. But I swear on the black book, if you double cross us, I'll hang you – I will."

Kristoph raised his head slightly in a condescending smirk. "Feel free to try."

And with that, Tin growls and is off. He stomps out of the balcony – which doesn't belong to him anyway, being Lady V's – and down the stairs to where a few of them were standing at the hallway in a single line. They're not used to being in here, since it's usually off limits for grunts to be in the House when Lady V's around. They shuffle uncomfortably back and forth, and visibly brighten when Tin walked into center stage and down those ridiculous stairs.

"There you are. You boys ready?"

"Yes, Tin Man," They announced in unison – like schoolchildren. Tin don't like those fancy pants reply, see? And neither does Lady V. So their men, they've got straight tongues – not like those snakes in Gavinne.

"Good," He growled. "That's good. Real good. Now you all don't need me to tell you what you gotta bring, right?"

"Of course not," One of them voiced out. "We've got all we need to take down those Gramarye girls." Laughter all around, and Tin cracks a grin.

"There shouldn't be that many there – so we gotta fair just fine. But I don't want anybody letting their guard down, you hear me?" They nod – exactly like schoolchildren. "Good, now git."

They git, and boy, do they git well – Tin felt a surge of pride as his boys marched out like well-trained ducks or potty-trained chicken. They got into the trucks, piling in like sushi. Tin got himself into a truck too – the second one in line. Not first, being that the first is usually the first to blow and what are they gonna do without Tin? Not any further back either, because he's replaced Viola on this job. Usually, when they have a big fight going on, Lady V will come along, giving out orders. It's either her or her grandfather – but this once, both of them aren't around, so it's up to Tin to take control.

A more complex man might revel in this sort of power, but Tin, he's just worried. Worried about Viola and if Kristoph Gavinne had really been as straightforward as he made himself out to be.

All these thoughts dispel though, as they near the pier and the scenery becomes more and more urban. From houses, it turns into tiny industrial sections where they attempt to replicate food fast enough for L.A's population. Containers and seemingly useless barrels replace the gray brick of houses, metal and wood replace the tar of common road, ringed by crisscrossed iron wire gates. At the end of the road is the large warehouse where Kristoph had told them The Gramarye had stashed the deal.

It was supposed to be a storage area for a museum's exhibit, except that the museum's exhibit had been 'switched' off with the products. On paper at least, it remains so. Tin had expected there to be lots of guards around to area – hell, if it was him, half his men would have gone around the place too. If Tin had organized his men earlier, the moment they knew of Viola's disappearance, they would have managed to keep the drug theirs.

Only they hadn't. But he strays.

Tin had expected guards, as he was saying – but what he hadn't expected was...This many.

"Jesus." He swore. "These aren't guards."

No, indeed, these weren't normal guards. At least, not in the normal sense of the word. At least a quarter of the gang is milling about, and it's obvious that they're preparing for something big. There's a barely concealed hostility in the air, one that pierces all the way into the steel of their vehicles. These isn't the normal amount of guards allocated to guarding the place – no one in their right mind would empty out the place like that to guard something, no matter how valuable. These people are here for some other reason.

You can see it from the way some of them wander about, throwing darkly suspicious glances over their shoulder. You can see it from the way they hunch slightly, wondering how long it'll take before whoever they're waiting for arrives. People were stomping up and down the pier, with trucks after trucks lined up on one side of it. The drug shipment is being moved – and it's being moved soon. The question is, why is it moving in the first? Why risk moving something unless –

"Gavinne." He hissed. One word.

"Boss?" The driver looked over at him worriedly. "This doesn't look good. Loads of them, and I think that's Armando."

One of the younger boys climbed a little to the front to get a better look at the pier. He spotted the tangle of wild black hair, standing beside another man with spikes. "Woah, that's a lot of them. And isn't that Wright? I heard he's got a real spiky head of hair."

Tin doesn't know so much about hairstyles, but he's seen the Firebird before, and his bones be damned if that wasn't him, world-famous cigarette tucked under one lip. They hadn't been noticed yet, concealed around the bend of an adjoining warehouse – but if they don't git soon, they'll be noticed – and then it's either Mafia Wars or running like some kind of shameful kicked dog. Tin had no idea which is the better option.

"What do we do, boss?"

Tin growled. Where's someone with brains when you need one? Tin operates so much easier when there's someone telling him what to do. But someone in charge can't show signs of weaknesses, or they'll tumble like dominoes. He turned around to pin them with his hard stare instead.

"It's up to you boys. Do you boys want to press on? 'Cuz it's gonna hurt like bitches with that many of them."

They exchanged glances. No one really wants to go in there with such a small force. It's like banging on Death's door and asking for doom – except they knew they're gonna have to do it eventually. Some kinda bad medicine – they'll have to take it away from the Gramaryes, if not now, then when it reaches it's next destination. And...

"They don't look too tough, Tin," One of them voiced. His voice frays a little, but it's as confident as it could get. "I think we can take them. They're about one and a half us, but we've got more experience."

"I wouldn't say that," Another frowned. "They look kinda tough actually."

"Ah...Don't be a pussy."

Tin growled.

'Sorry boss."

"Right," He snapped. "Ask the other boys in the other trucks. See how many of them wanna go in and how many wanna scamper. If there's enough who's going in – we all are."

"'kay, Tin – you said it."

The word was spread from truck to truck by cell, and at the end of it, the decision was almost unanimous. Go in. This decision might have came around because the rest of the trucks were further behind, and therefore cannot see exactly how many Gramaryes there are. But who is Tin to say no to that sort of honest jubilation? They're his boys, but they're not his babies. He doesn't need to mollycoddle them. It's every man for his own hide here, and if they all offer their hide, he ain't gonna say no to them, right?

"Alright. You guys said it. Let's go then."

They nod. The next truck nods. The next truck over nods. Then quietly, they slipped out of the truck and snuck closer to the warehouse.

* * *

Phoenix sighed.

Zak's men were milling back and forth the place, though he supposed he should be calling them his men by now. They were making him nervous, because they were loading the things into the trucks and it's making a truckload of noises. This is to make it easier for when they need to hand everything up to Gavinne. The trucks are obviously, Kristoph's – for Phoenix's men to load up before he arrives with the cash. It's making his heart beat faster, the way the boxes kept knocking about and making these strange boof-biff-boof sounds, like someone is giving a punchbag a bored punch-out. Punch, swing, punch.

Phoenix sighed.

The men are all waiting for Kristoph to show up. At least half of these weren't needed, but as Diego had pointed out earlier, when dealing with snakes, it's best to look at the sunrise. Phoenix had absolutely zero idea what the hell he meant, but he gathered it probably meant something like...Be prepared. Maybe. He's outwardly composed, but at the rate he's going through Pall Malls, he's not gonna live for much longer. He's not really smoking though, more like biting the cigarette and chewing on it, so maybe that will extend his life a little longer?

Phoenix sighed again.

He felt an ache in his bones, like something bad is going to happen. Any moment now, and something horrible and terrifyingly catastrophic is going to happen to his plans, and then it'll be doomsday to all his well-laid plans. He's wide awake, but it feels surreal. Like he's walking through a dream, where everything hinges on Kristoph Gavinne holding up his part of the deal, and that, as we know, is hardly ever for the man. And why were the men wandering about like little lost girls? Are those muscles for show? Some flashy buns of steels to show off to the aliens, who will any moment now descend through a hole in the sky and-- What the hell is he talking about? Ah, dammit, he needs some of Armando's coffee to wipe away this nervous feeling.

Oh, but wait. If he drinks his coffee, he'll be dead, so maybe not.

Phoenix sighed.

"Will you stop that!?" Diego roared. Phoenix blinked. For a moment there he thought Diego had been talking about someone else – but when he looked up, the tanned man is staring at him and growling like a rabid dachshund. Oh wait, those are the sausage ones. No no, something bad ass. What's badass?

"Why the hell are you sighing up and down, Trite? You sound like a bloody lovesick kitten."

"I do not," Phoenix protested weakly. Diego just glowered all the more.

"You sound like a college girl writing over-fantasized poetry and self-insert fanfiction, Trite – and I'll appreciate it if you cut it out."

"Why? Making you nervous?" He retorted. If Diego's literally a dog, the upper lip would definitely go up in a rabid growl.

"No – it's just that you're the leader of the group now. How can you lead men when you're acting like a woman?"

"Excuse me for being susceptible to normal human emotion then," Phoenix retorted. He stopped sighing though, instead looking out at the pier worriedly. It's almost the appointed time, sent by Kristoph Gavinne in one of those famous over-the-top cards of his. Those that either look like a gaudy circus pin-up or elegant, depending on your taste in life – and it clearly mentioned this place, at this time, being the pier, at three in the afternoon. Phoenix would know, there's a hole in the calender where he circled the spot repeatedly with a pen.

He knows he's not suppose to be like this. He's usually just that little bit more stoic and composed – just that it IS an important deal after all. And who does he choose to make it with? Kristoph Gavinne. Yeah, shucks. That's enough to make anyone nervous, and though outwardly, he looked like a shapely rock, his insides are twirling around. He's not worried about anything, just one tiny thing. If Kristoph Gavinne is going to hold up the end of the deal.

Somehow, Phoenix had a strange suspicion he already knew the answer – Kristoph had agreed too quickly, and too casually for there to be no hidden agenda. Either he desperately needed those drugs or he's up to something. Nothing to do about it he supposed, but to hold his nose and dive into the deep end of the pool, hoping for the best.

"Boss!"

Phoenix looked up, almost expecting to see Zak standing by the pier with his hands on his waist and looking out to the sea. He shook his head though – not a time to daydream – and one of the boys who had been standing around the corner was running towards him.

"I think he's here, boss!" The man called out excitedly. "I think they're here – I see a couple of trucks around the corner!"

"Trucks?" Diego turned around to frown at Phoenix. "But hadn't he provided us with the trucks? Why is he...?"

"I don't know..." Phoenix frowned back out. Had Gavinne decided to bring men of his own? That seems plausible, but not very likely. The man fancied himself some sort of modern day drama king, and if he shows up at all, it'll be with only a few men, dressed in impeccable blue.

"B-Boss!" Another man called out again, looking like an excitable child. "They're here!"

Phoenix waited for the the stately sound of Kristoph's limo door going clickity-click, followed by one pair of high-class shoes that you can recognize because it's so expensive it probably comes with a recording function that sings hallelujah to hail it's owner.

Instead, what came was completely different :

There's a sound down the pier of a door slamming shut, and what's unmistakeably the sound that van doors make when they're slid apart. Phoenix's heard the sound a million times before, and he turned pale the moment he heard it, along with Armando. What follows is a dozen or so stampeding footsteps, also horrifyingly familiar. It's the sounds that play prelude to everything from horrible burnings to mass slaughter, and it's also the sound that they're hearing right now.

The people were stomping down the wooden docks of the pier, clawed and ravaged with time, about the only place in the state where they still use wood anymore. Phoenix only had time to register that the man that had called out earlier had been blown aside before Armando drew back his fist and punched Phoenix in the face.

Caught off guard, Phoenix fell backwards, blinking watering eyes at the other man as a shiv someone threw whizzed over his face, where his head had been a moment earlier. He falls like a sack of potatoes, ungracefully, and looked up at Diego.

'What the hell was that for? You couldn't have shoved like a normal person?"

"Sorry, Trite – been wanting to do that for years."

"What!?"

Armando flashed a dark grin at him, but that was when conversation had to halt. Halt, because all at once it seems the hell Diego likes to talk about so much had exploded all at once around them in technicolour glory. People they never knew existed appeared one by one around the area, peppering it. They weren't exuberantly large, but there were enough of them to make sure that for every two Wright guys, there's at least one wrong guy taking them down.

Shivs and knives and bats and whatnots clashed at each other, bashing up skulls and making a cacophony not unlike a massive drum fight. Phoenix's men, caught off guard, were caught between not knowing what happened and fighting back for all they're worth, which resulted in some of them attacking their own members. Even as Phoenix watched in horror, his own brain paralyzed like a million tons worth of taser beams had just gone through it, he could see the fight breaking down into man vs man, instead of gang vs assailant. People were just lashing out blindly.

"Goddammit, get your heads around you!" Armando roared. He charged into the thick of the fight, coming from the end of the pier that leads to the road. There, Phoenix sees a recognizable bald head poking amidst the crowd, at least seven feet if he's one. He'll recognize that misshapen potato any day – the Tin Man.

"Armando, it's Tin!" He shouted back, bracing himself in case some UDO - Unidentifiable Dangerous Object – flies across and stabs him where he doesn't want to be stab. He can barely be heard above the sound though. Phoenix's voice isn't soft – it was just that between the men roaring, whether in pain or in fury, and the occasional gunshot going like a Chinese New Year celebration down in Chinatown, you'll have to be one really loud person to be heard.

Armando doesn't need him to tell him who it was though, because barely a second after he shouted it out, Tin pulled back one heavy arm and let swung against his head, knocking Armando aside. Diego went down with a shout, before scrambling up a few feet away, head obviously disorientated from the way he swerved left and right like a drunken man.

The moment he recovered, he grabbed at a nearby man while Tin was busy with the others, snatching a long knife out of his hands and neatly slitting his throat. Diego turned back to Tin just in time for him to duck as Tin swung out again at him with one of those heavy sabers that Phoenix thought had gone extinct before Christ. It curves in a sharp arc above Diego's head, smashing into a crate next to him. It smashed the crate apart like a knife would a tofu, but the blade's heavy, and it takes him a longer moment to--

Phoenix threw himself aside as one Tin's snipers aimed and shot at him. He hadn't seen where he was going, so he smashed right into a mountain of boxes. That killed at least a third of his brain cells, but at least it kept him alive. The sniper aimed a rifle at him again, obviously having singled him out for being the boss – before another one of Phoenix's men charged at him and stabbed him repeatedly with another one of those famed shivs.

At this point, if someone is looking at the whole situation with a detached eye that overcomes all limits and boundaries of physicality, they will note that Gramarye's men are a lot less well trained than Tin's. It isn't exactly Zak's regime's fault – at least not this one. It was just that most of Tin's boys had been trained like little pooches. They know how to lift their legs and shoot where it hurts the most, and they know enough at least, to keep their heads about them. Phoenix's on the other hand had been nervous and exuberant, waiting for Kristoph's men – and was subsequently rewarded with an ambush out of nowhere.

When lights and gunfire and sound explodes all at once around you, you have got oh, all of two choices. One? Drop dead. Never be heard of again. Two? Just lash out at anything that's moving.

It's a man eat man world after all, and in such a cannibalistic environment - nice guys finish last. To survive, just stab anything that moves to death. If you have a knife, slit someone's throat. If you have a gun, shoot someone. If you don't have nothing, just throw yourself onto the guy and bite him to death.

It's a law that all humans fall back to the moment signs of adversity rises up like smoking geysers. It doesn't matter if you're a white collar CEO – or like them now, lowlife thugs. Principle of humanity? Save your own skin. Skin others. Live.

That's it. _Live._

"BOSS!"

One of Phoenix's men screeched out – and if this is a calmer environment, Phoenix would probably comment that it sounded like a pig. He doesn't though, because the man that's screaming out is narrowly avoiding being hacked to bits by an adjacent man and belatedly, Phoenix realized he had the solution to the problem.

Pulling his revolver out his coat, he raised a shaking hand and blew Tin's man's head off miraculously. Miraculously, because his hand is shaking so hard it's hard to wrap it around the revolver in the first place and GODDAMIT – he wasn't a newbie at this sort of thing. How long has he been around? Years? What is he doing here, shaking like a leaf or a post-drug junkie? Diego's fighting for his life – as well as other lives – Phoenix can see his bright red shirt weaving in and out the crowd like a prizefighter. So what's he doing here, being a figurehead of the most despicable kind?

Steeling himself, Phoenix started picking his way through the fight. He shrinks himself and hunches over, because that way he becomes less conspicuous and less likely to be attacked by some random man or worse – his own men. He kept his revolver out though, always on the ready, and if someone from his own camp had hit him, he won't promise you that he wouldn't have had blew the man's head off in reaction. He picked his way towards the crowd like that, evading the center of the attention, until he got to the man who had been shot at him earlier.

He picked the man's rifle out of the sticky blood and cringed at how fishy the whole thing smelled. Would it even blow, submerged in it's owner like that? No matter – Phoenix isn't a scientist, he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Phoenix turned up a nearby broken crate as a semi-shield of sorts. He knelt down behind it, allowing the wooden board to lean up against one knee while his hands fidgeted with the rifle. He's forced his hands to stop shaking from the buzz in his head and aligned the thing with his eyesight, aiming at any and every man who doesn't look like he belonged to the Gramarye troop.

Now, Phoenix isn't the world's best marksmen, or even within the top million or so. Certainly there are many people who can shoot better than him – or at least Armando does. But then Armando claims he can do everything better than Phoenix can. The man in question though, was struggling with Tin, locked in some sort of one to one combat that only manly men will ever understand. Phoenix had no such compunctions to be manly – he just wants to get out of here alive with at least half of everyone intact, and with that in mind, he picked up the rifle and started snipping.

First he worked out those that had been ambushed, scattered around the sides of the pier edge. He snips one or two of those out. More often than not, the bullets misses and hit something else – mostly because his hands are shaking like bananas in a storm. It distracted the men he shot against though, and this usually end up in two ways : Either Tin's men are distracted, and get carved a new butter slot, or Phoenix's men are distracted, in which case they get carved a new peanut butter place.

If it's the latter, Phoenix merely raised the rifle again, and take another shot. The survivor falls, the survivor dies. He moves on to the next guy. He did this repeatedly, until the act itself seems as common as hand washing, or maybe bird watching. Randomly pick a target, shoot, kill. Miss? Swear on someone's innocent mother, and try again. He had been worried earlier, when he saw the rifle soaked – but it shoots as well as it does dry.

When the rifle ran out of ammo, he threw it aside. The man who had owned it would have had spares, but Phoenix hasn't gone so low as to search a dead man for bullets. Instead, he pulled out his revolver and stepped hesitantly forward into the fight. He doesn't get shot, because by now most of the fight had died down. His own men, if he had bothered counting – were at least half down. Those that survive aren't in any shape to get up and fight anytime soon, and the only ones still at it were centered around Tin and Diego.

The man in question lunged at Tin, now equipped on both hands. One is wrapped around a long long knife – different from the one Phoenix had last seen him with - the kind you see in butchering shops that seem too long to be useful and about three inches short of a Japanese katana. The other is wrapped around an iron pipe someone had brought into the fray. Tin, for a man of his size, seems to be more agile than should be possible. He swung the saber to block off the iron pipe that had came flying around, but – and this is where the small always win – the saber is too slow and too heavy and too solid to spring back quickly, and Diego took the chance to slip his own knife in, exactly like knife into butter.

Tin goes down in a roar, and apparently he went down with suicidal tendencies too. He threw himself forwards, determined to drag Diego down with him. Phoenix reacted instinctively, holding up his revolver and firing as many rounds as he could, until the click of doom announces that he's out of little bits of death to shoot out. More than half the rounds missed because Phoenix hadn't been looking when he shot – just thinking, oh dear, Armando is in trouble and just letting his trigger finger go into joint-jerk reaction.

He knew at least three of it hits though, because he's pretty sure he saw three of them going into Tin. One in the muscle slightly below his neck and the other two into his bicep and forearm. He knows too, because Diego stepped backward and hissed as two other of Tin's men shot forth like torpedoes towards him and another one drags Tin backwards to where their trucks were.

Around this point, it'll be safe for a bystander to jump out and shout 'Phoenix, you moron, get him!' Get a knife or something sharp, like one of the many scattered around the ground and finish Tin off. He doesn't though – instead, he reached down, grabbed an axe, and approached Diego's assailants from behind. Drawing the axe back, he let loose, sinking it into one of the men's back even as Diego finishes off the other with a slash.

They paused to take a breath or ten to calm themselves, but it prove one breath too many, because when they returned to real world again, Tin was gone, dragged away by two of his men. They were getting into a van, heaving the heavy man in, and by the time Armando and Phoenix get to their side, it would have been too late – the door would have slammed shut in their faces and the van would just run over them like yesterday's garbage.

It didn't stop Diego sending the pipe flying into their windshield where it falls short it's mark though. "Run like mice, rats! If you're men you'll get back here and go one round with me!"

The van is not impressed by Diego's manliness.

It backs out of the pier before breaking into full speed away, leaving a smooth cloud of carbon monoxide to hint that it was ever there before. Diego swore at it's leaving rear end, before letting his weapon fall to the ground with a nasty clunk. Phoenix clapped him on the shoulder, and Diego followed the knife and leaned heavily onto a nearby barrel.

"That was...Nasty." He said in a half groan. " It's like blend #67, bitter, sharp, and stings like a bee where it hurts the most."

"For once, you make sense," Phoenix joked, except no one felt like laughing. He felt like dropping down himself, or tasting the God awful blend #67 for himself.

Slowly, those that had survived the onslaught, which numbered around a dozen or so from the original thirty men, they slowly climbed up. They look around, examining the carnage, or maybe they look up to thank the sky, their mother, their grandfather, and the God of Coffee. Stun is the word to describe the men, but stun is not the word they would describe themselves with, being that they're too stunned to describe a circle.

Phoenix stayed beside Armando, enjoying the thing call oxygen and just thanking his lucky stars and that Tin had been warded off. That's one good thing at least. He takes a pause to just be grateful for being alive, staring at that spot over the horizon where nothing meets nothing. Gradually though, the gears and cogs in his brain started spinning again.

"Wait." He said, scowling. Something isn't right – something that had bugged him the moment Tin appeared and he went 'Oh Gee, how did they know we were the one who took their drugs'? He had assumed Tin just wanted his stuff back, which he probably did, except - "How did they know?"

"How did they know what? Speak sense, man."

"How did they know the shipment is here?" Phoenix bit out angrily, looking in the direction they had disappeared into. "We've moved them here, and how did they know unless--"

He closed his mouth to allow his brain to work after fifteen minutes worth of lagging and hand-eye coordination. The facts, quite obviously, points to only one thing – except his brain is too overworked to figure anything out. The moment they unclogged themselves like a blocked pipe though, the resulting siphoning was –

"_Kristoph_. That _bastard_." Phoenix hissed. One word, one name, and it was enough for Armando to spring back to his feet.

'Goddamned – that little snake--"

Phoenix whipped around, and without waiting for Armando, stomped back towards the warehouse where they had left all the drugs and the trucks. They hadn't looked around even once during the battle, or if they had, they would be dead by now and wouldn't be in any shape to talk. The fight had moved them around, and when they stomped back to where they had left everything – it was as Phoenix guessed. There were no traces of the trucks.

All of them were gone – having rolled off from the adjacent roads, off to the great unknown. Stolen by a bastard they never should have trusted in the first place.

Phoenix's roar that day, would rival just about any wounded beast you care to name.

* * *

I'm tire myself with my car chases. Will get around to that klavipollo, swear.


	8. VII : YodelEeHoo

WTF. Five whole pages of conversation. Oh Lord, Why do I do this to myself? Sorry, dry patches. Daryan will appear in...Two chapters I think. First person who guess what he's gonna be gets a newborn. xD

* * *

_Seven : Yodel-Ee-Hoo_

-

If the compression of a storm cloud is possible, Diego had a funny feeling that someone in the past day or so had compressed one of those nifty storm clouds that bring around Katrina and had deposited them into Phoenix Wright's face. Certainly, he looked very much the part of a brewing thunderstorm. His face might be creamy (Contrary to popular belief, you don't actually turn purple unless you're dead) but there's no hiding the black expression on it. If someone walks in right now shouting hallelujah, that someone will be walking out with one limb dragging behind him.

Ah, stuff of life.

Diego sipped his coffee and looked out of the window through the steam rising from his mug. Phoenix is going pit-a-pat-pat behind him, but then he's been doing the same thing for hours now, and Diego's learned to ignore him. The backyard peeks out directly underneath Phoenix's window, a groomed and polished garden by their resident gardener. In a corner is a large cage, prison and chains to Regent, Phoenix's souvenir tiger from an old acquaintance. Normal people get flowers and chocolates for their birthdays – this lucky man got a tiger. Fitting he supposed. A tiger for a lion of a man, even though he can act more like a kitten sometimes.

Certainly, he's acting very like a yowling kitten whom you've stroke the wrong way right now.

"When I get my hands on him, I'm going to make him eat his glasses." He yelled stomping down the length of the room. Diego grunts.

"And you better write that down somewhere too! I'm going to twist his head right around and hang him on a shower head!"

Diego grunts again, sipping his coffee. The threats are getting just a little tamer now. A few hours ago, and even Diego would be remiss in making irrelevant comments to the man's face. There's a pretty China vase that had belonged to Zak. It's in a black plastic bag now. The insults are getting a little tamer, though the temper obviously hadn't. It's just that like crying, once you've gotten over the main rush of those pearly tears, all that remains is a semi-ridiculous perspective of yourself. You go 'Is that me making those noises?'

"How long are you going to continue yowling like a kitten, Wright?" Diego commented, sniffing lightly at blend #92. Ah, stuff of life. "You're making the carpet look like a stampeding buffalo's grazing ground."

"Throw it out then!" He barked back.

"Kind of hard to, considering that you're stomping around on it," He returned dryly. Phoenix stopped long enough to stare at the carpet he's making a mess of, before announcing -

"I need a toilet brush."

Diego blinks, and doesn't even bother deciphering that sort of nonsensical comment. He goes back to staring at the yard, wondering how long it'll take for Phoenix to calm down enough to string sentences into legible ideas. Eventually though, the pacing slows down, ending with a bang in the form of a long-suffering sigh. The rumble comes deep and agonized, but then it's to be expected. The shipment's gone after all, right under their noses – and Diego doesn't know if it's their fault for being gullible enough to believe that Kristoph will hold up his end of the deal for once in his life or to blame Kristoph for being the large brown turd he is.

"You relaxed now?" He asked Phoenix. The answer he got was a rake across his hair and an irritable sigh.

"It's gone, isn't it?"

"You can say that again."

He dropped down heavily onto an armchair. It takes all of one second of blankly staring before he pulls out another pack of the ever-present sticks of doom . He lit one up and waved the other hand this way and that like a conjuror. "Which pinehead was it who decided to make a deal with Kristoph Gavinne?" He demanded. "Because that's the worse idea I've ever heard in my life."

"That would be you, Trite."

"Ah."

"So which pinehead was it that made a deal with Kristoph Gavinne?"

Phoenix said nothing, letting the topic drop with an ungraceful plop.

They strayed in temporary silence, Diego sipping on his coffee, Phoenix smoking. The shipment is definitely gone, and no amount of stomping around is going to change the fact. They had examined every nook and cranny, send the word down to their remaining boys to be on the look out for the trucks, but nothing. Nothing came, and nothing would come – Kristoph Gavinne is a thorough man if nothing else, and there's no doubt he's the one who took it.

This means a lot of things, the least of which that Diego considered it a small loss, but not an irrevocable one. Wright underestimates himself sometimes – there's no need for them to touch that white thing. The white stuff is rather like the Pearl – even though it'll help them a long ways, there's no doubt that it'll immediately put them into the spotlight where the police is concern too. Now that it's gone though, Diego can't say that it'll be miss – but this is a personal thing now.

Kristoph had just scratched their eyes out, and this means something that even a first-grader can tell you : WAR.

"What are you planning to do with him?"

Phoenix's face darkened, and it's clear that whatever Kristoph Gavinne does in the near and foreseeable future, Phoenix will be there every step of the way, sinking his teeth into his quadricep femoris.

"War." He echoed. "He asked for it, turning around and stabbing us in the back like that. It was a straightforward trade, wasn't it? It wasn't like I was demanding an exorbitant amount of money – the profit he made would have been double."

"Perhaps he wants a larger profit."

The unspoken thing is of course, that Gavinne accumulates money like an old house accumulates dust.

Phoenix's face twisted to look even more like said storm cloud. "It wasn't" He bit out acidly. "It wasn't the profit he cared about, I'll bet anything on it : It was just to show us – to show _me_ up. Show me that he's better than anything I can do."

"He's still hung up about the whole underboss thing?"

Phoenix snorted. "Are you kidding? He's rubber and he's glue, anything that's problematic comes from his cue."

Diego snorts, but doesn't argue the point. Why? Whenever something problematic happens, chances are, if you trace along the line long enough, you'll eventually come across Kristoph Gavinne's name. The man's all sorts of sneaky, and there's nothing he doesn't have a hand in. One of these days – someone is going to come up with a slimier plan, and it'll be the end of him. These things always happen – it's the sad thing about human evolution. One generation just surpluses the previous in it's ways.

"You haven't solve the problem," Diego reminded him. "The shipment's still gone – which I frankly still don't see as important."

"Of course it's important – it's money."

"Bad money, maybe,"

"It's not – and I'm not getting into another argument about that with you."

"Let's get into an argument about something else then," Armando retorted. "You still haven't answer me – what exactly do you plan to do with Kristoph Gavinne?"

"I'm going to make life hell for him, in short," Phoenix declared. His tone is strangely flat, devoid of emotion – like he's announcing that flowers are flowers. "He likes to play this sort of game? Fine, we'll play it with him. His men aren't so tough – we'll take the thing right back from him, the way he did us."

Diego growled. He knew it was going to be some trite idea like this. "What do I always tell you, Trite? Only a fool throws himself headlong into a bullfight."

"Maybe," He shot back. "But you're the one who always says a man doesn't hesitate and all that baloney."

"I don't recall ever mentioning being stupid – which you're being. You know we can't win against him in an all-out war. We just lost, what twelve men there alone? He'll oil the gears and twist us into it before we know what's happening."

"Why? Why do we have to put him so high up on the fearsome pedestal? He's just another man." The cigarette crumpled between two agitated fingers, their owner too bothered to even think of smoking. "He might be cunning, but he's not the Lord God. We've taken down smart guys before – we can take this one down too."

Yes, except the smart guys that they had taken down before aren't as influential – nor had those really been all their skills and prowess, as much as Diego hates to admit it. There are times where they had ride on the wind of chance and luck and came out the survivor – torn and beaten but victorious – but Lady Luck is a fickle mistress. One moment she is yours and yours alone, and next she'll be having a steamy affair with your immediate neighbour.

"It's not him I'm so worried about. We might come out from the other end of the bramble bush, but we'll be scratched to the bitter end before then. Coffee is black, Wright, and so's the man's soul."

The cigarette crumpled entirely. "Alright - so what do you suggest we do then? Stand aside and watch him mock us?"

"We stay alive," Diego answered simply. "Bid our time and find a chance to slip the knife between his armour."

"So we wait? That's your amazing, manly, coffee-awesome idea? We _wait_?"

"Yes, waiting will keep us alive--"

Phoenix lifted himself out of the chair and demanded at him."And what's the point if we're living it like cowards? Where's the pride in that?"

Diego lifted the coffee mug and placed it under his nose, inhaling the smell. "You will recall, Wright..." He said quietly. "That my priority is not to help you out with your petty little vengeance against Gavinne. I am here to keep you alive, that's all. I promised her that, that I'll watch out for you. I don't give a damn how you live this life of yours – if it's Dante's Inferno itself I'll keep your head in it every single minute of the day."

Phoenix threw himself back into the chair. "Sometimes I don't know if you're a blessing or a curse, Armando."

"Consider me both."

The man broke into a series of coughs, before tipping the chair backwards and forwards like a preschooler. There wasn't anyone around to see though – so Diego let it slide. He went back to the window, and watch the yard again, watching, as a few kids from around the neighbourhood peek from above the neatly trimmed hedges into the yard and at Regent. The kitten purrs at them, and they go flying down the street – to the right, where the road branches off.

As they bend around the corner, headlights flashed onto them, preceding the actual body of another one of those anonymous black cars with a license plate several years younger than the actual car itself. It piqued Armando's interest though, because they weren't expecting any guests.

In this day and age, no one in their right mind would sign a legal contract that states that they need to open doors for people they drive for, but this one, the driver does anyway – out of respect and perhaps admiration for the black iron's contents.

He rushes out from his side of the car, and pulls apart to reveal a lady, swathed all in a veil of black that matches the car perfectly. The veil and the fabric of the dress comes in a set, and it's lined with some sort of thread that glistens out and is as reflective as live metal wires – because it reflects the spotlights hung out in the yard and glitters back a little in greeting, like a silken thread of a wave.

"Wright," He called out in a strangled tone. He turned around, but Phoenix was starting in on his second cigarette again.

"What?" He looked at him wearily. "Don't start again – I crushed the previous one."

"No, I think you should come and take a look at this."

Phoenix got up like an old man that's got far too many cramps in the bones to speak of in respectable company, shaking his head slightly as he walked over. He's weary you see, and just wants to go to bed and maybe wake up tomorrow without today ever happening at all. He leaned into the cold pane of the window beside Diego and sighed out.

"What's it now...?"

"Open those eyes." Diego said simply, and pointed. He needn't have bothered though, because the moment Phoenix saw the lady walking down the path into the house, his eyes widened.

"Thalassa," He breathed out, almost in awe. Diego chuckled.

Thalassa looked up from the pathway, and spotting the both of them at the window, waved lightly. Even from up here, you can see her smile – and if not see, then perhaps imagine the demure smile that always seem to line the woman's lips.

"There you go, the grieving widow. She's finally appeared, eh?"

Phoenix answered by plastering his face against the pane, even though by now Thalassa had progressed down the path so much that you can't see her because the lower building is blocking her out. It didn't stop Phoenix from staring at the spot she had last been like it contained a million boxes of Indiana Jones' treasure though, and if Diego hadn't shook him on the shoulder, goodness knows how long he'll stand there trading CPR with the window?

"Come on Trite," He said sternly. "Don't you think it's rude for a man to leave a kitten waiting?"

The man needn't be told twice. He bundled off in the direction of the door before Diego's last word, pausing only to examine his reflection in the one Siamese vase he hadn't broken into a million pieces. He looked like a teenager – just for a moment there – and not a man who as a routine thing, runs Zak Gramarye's job and burns down any and all buildings who neglected to heed their 'rent'. He paused to slick his hair back, before disappearing off into the hall without even bothering to turn around and bid farewell.

Diego chuckled, sipping his coffee and turning back to window. Ah, foolish kittens. But then he knows how it's like to be in love, doesn't he?

He allows Phoenix a grace period of ten minutes, in which no doubt the man stutters his way through a conversation with Thalassa. There's nothing in the world that can reduce the usually (pretty much) stoic man into a pile of nervous lip-biting and hair-ruffling. If Kristoph ever wants to threaten Phoenix, really, he needn't bring out all the big guns...All he needs is Thalassa Gramarye, wife of the late Zak Gramarye. A disturbing thought – that.

The ten minutes up, Diego put the mug down on the table, sighing. Seventeenth cup. Time to sleep soon so that the number will refill itself.

He padded down the hallway, and downstairs into the hall, where Phoenix could be heard talking to Thalassa. The lady in question is shrouded all in black today, with the exception of her white dress. A lady in mourning, who doesn't want people to forget that simple fact.

"Lady Thalassa," Diego greeted. "It's always nice to see you."

Phoenix hissed at him. "Took you long enough, what was I – the infantry troops?"

"Kittens have ears, Trite," He commented drily. Thalassa chuckled, a soft demure sort of chuckle, and gestured at the living room leading into the entrance hall. "Shall we all take a seat? I confess I'm quite tired from the theatre."

The men concur, and the three sank into Phoenix's comparatively spartan couches. "You were at the theatre? How's the show coming along?"

"Oh it's quite well, quite well. A little trouble from this and that perhaps, but nothing I can't straighten out."

"You should take a break," Phoenix inserted earnestly. "Running an opera house can't be easy – you deserve all the rest you can get."

She arched an eyebrow. "Working relieves the soul, I believe it was a Borginian artist who had once said that."

"A bastard language," Diego put bluntly. "Can't understand a word of it."

"Ignore him, he's just being a bastard," Phoenix interjected quickly. Thalassa wasn't offended though, merely chuckling.

"It's alright – I know it's a troublesome language. I don't understand my own fascination with it either – but it has a very exciting culture."

"And hot tempered, impatient people," Diego muttered darkly. If the Borginian merchant they deal with sometimes is the example of Borginian adulthood, Diego rather go all his life without knowing them. "But we seem to digress. It's still good to see you, whatever language you're currently learning."

Phoenix jumped back into the conversation, and for the next half and hour, the three of them traded pleasantries. Diego mostly kept out of it though. Pointless banter distract him, not to mention pointless banter is well, pointless. There's nothing he hates more than kissing people on both cheeks and going gee, how have you been? We haven't seen in each other for so long! We should totally get together and have some coffee sometimes. Say. What's your name again?

He lets it slide this time though – because it has been a long time since Thalassa has shown up. When Zak had been in Sicily, she had mostly kept to herself, either due to her busy life or her immaterial desire for more company. With Zak now newly turning in the soil, she had kept away even more – though it's hard to tell. It's barely been weeks since Zak Gramarye's death after, though with all that's happened in between, it seems so much longer.

Diego tapped his fingers precisely one thousand and twelve times before voicing : "So Thalassa, what brings you here today?"

Phoenix grunted. "It can't be to see you, with that sort of grumpy attitude."

"It's what the kittens line up for," He quipped. Phoenix rolled his eyes, but didn't correct him.

At Thalassa, it was, "He does have a point though – was there something you wanted to see us about?"

There's a slightly nervous twitch in the air, barely visible but on the stratosphere. After all, Phoenix had taken Zak's place in the mob – and had done so without actually sitting down and consulting Thalassa on it. He had been quickly buried to avoid too much police attention, and then Phoenix had simply assumed order after that. No questions asked, no opinions sought. If Thalassa starts a fight about it – not that she will – Phoenix will simply step down, Diego can be sure of that.

Thalassa smiled delicately, and even though she's all charm and sweetness, Diego was wary of her. It's not that he's paranoid or anything, but it's just a little hard to trust people sometimes. She's the late wife of Zak Gramarye – you can't tell if she'll bear you grudges or not. Not everyone paints their thoughts and feelings on their brow, experience alone should tell them that, no? But the smile didn't seem to harbour ill will.

"I came because I heard some rumours at the theatre today, actually."

The two men exchanged looks.

"From who?" Phoenix asked cautiously. A mine is thrown into the ground, and the three, for all verbal purposes, starts dancing in between bombs.

"Wellington, you know of him?"

Phoenix snorted. "Yeah, though I wish I don't. He's that...Ridiculous man who keeps buttering up Roger Rivales in order to get into his will, wasn't he?"

"Ah, that one." Diego sneered. Oh yes, he remembered that lock of hair alright. "The one stupid enough to record all his clients' names into his phone list?"

"Well, they wouldn't have managed to pin Gant down without his phone, that's for sure. But that's neither here nor there – what did the bas-- guy said to you?"

She quirked a little amused smile at him. "I'm not a 24-year-old you're trying to court any more you know, Phoenix – you don't have to be so courteous around me."

Phoenix coughed and tugged at his collar. She forged on.

"What Wellington told me was this : that that special tonight on television, the one where the men were all over the docks....He told me that those were our men, and Gavinne had in fact, been the one responsible for it.."

One side of the man's lip went up, and Phoenix couldn't hide his wrath at Gavinne if he had a dozen rolls of masking tapes. "Well, you could say he pretty much did that, yeah."

"I see. Do I want to know what he did?"

"Long story short," He explained. "He took something that we took from someone else, and we don't like it."

"Ah, mud fights, the usual?" The amused look heightened. "Sometimes I don't know if you all are children or men. Every time I stop by for a house call, I'm regaled with news of some new thing gone wrong."

"It really isn't our fault this time," Phoenix returned defensively. "Gavinne backstabbed us."

"And is the next thing I hear from Wellington also true? Are you all planning to retaliate on him?"

Diego whistled. 'Well, well, how fast word spreads. It's been hours, and speculations are already on the street. Bloody little magpies..."

The subject doesn't drop. "_Are_ you planning to do something about it?"

"Yes," Phoenix interjected quickly, before Diego could react. "Yes, we are actually – we can't just let them walk away with something like this. And" He added, when Diego shot him a dirty look. "It's defeatist to simply assume that we can't win against him."

"And I am of the opinion that that is like walking into battle without a coffee mug." He looked at Thalassa to plead his case – if there's one thing that'll put the foot down with Phoenix, it was she. "Why don't you talk sense into this rodent, Thalassa? His skull is thicker than my blend – and my blend is very thick."

"Hmm." She mused on this. The kitten wouldn't look misplaced either, if a pyramid suddenly sprouts under her and she's cast into Cleopatra's shoes.

"Exactly how do you plan this 'retaliation' of yours?"

"Burn." Phoenix answered almost immediately. "I'm thinking of a massive barbecue. We'll start with Gavinne's little estate down in the fringes, and then we'll go to his house. If we have time."

Diego rolled his eyes. "Is that your solution for everything, Trite? Burn? A man with no vision."

"At the risk of offending all the blind people out there – I'll like to point out you have lesser vision than I do," He returned.

"Burn, was it? I suppose. They don't call you the Firebird for no reason after all," She mused, tapping a soft finger on her cheek dreamily. Phoenix flushed modestly. "Yes I do remember you being quite well at that."

"I uh-- Ahem. So you approve?"

Raising a teacup from the nearby tray, she stirred it as though in great contemplation of the matter. It was obvious what she would choose though – after all, Thalassa Gramarye had no stomach for the viler things of life, and if Phoenix is a little less lovesick of the woman and holding one less secret flame all these years, he'll see that the reason the gang had gone downhill in the first place isn't because of Zak – but because of Magnifi's daughter herself.

Of course, that never occurred to Phoenix. Zak would remain to blame, as long as the alternative is to blame Thalassa. No one with sight – one eye or not – can possibly miss that gleam in Phoenix's eye, that spark that lights up every time he speaks to or of her. It's like a shining bulb whose switch is Thalassa Gramarye. In the presence of the filament, it will light. If Thalassa steps on dung, it is worshipful dung to Phoenix.

How many years has it been, anyway? Diego mused. It's certainly been many years now – he can hardly remember a time when Phoenix wasn't in love with Thalassa, another man's wife or not.

Sometimes he wonders if it was really for the good of the gang that Zak had to die.

"Tell me you don't approve," He told the sipping lady. "Because I can assure you one thing – it's a long dark pit we'll be throwing ourselves into."

"No, I'm afraid I don't approve of it," She agreed. Phoenix groaned, and the two of them chuckled lightly at him.

"This isn't fair – the two of you are teaming up on me," He groaned. But the tone is light and without venom, a slight patch of grey when previously there had been black. "Well what do you suggest we do then?" He asked Thalassa. "I'm not letting him go unscathed that's for sure."

"I'm not asking you not to return the favour...Just do it more subtly. This used to be," And at this, she turned a cool eye at them to make sure they know that she noticed the fact that they hadn't consulted her on it, no matter the lack of ill will - "Zak's after all, and I'm sure he won't want to see half of it gone because of some petty discussion."

"It's not exactly a step-on-your-shoe argument. And well, subtlety isn't our forte," Diego retorted. "Hacking and chainsaws and bats are our deal, but subtlety?"

"Not if by subtlety you mean converting our gang's standard weapon to a knitting needle," Phoenix quipped. She laughed, and replaced the teacup on the tray with a clink of China.

"Then that's what I'm here for then – we discuss. Knowing the both of you, the only thing you'll come up with is more violence. The both of you need subtlety."

They chuckled – and indeed, discuss they do. In the next hour or so, they started slapping down a plan to take back the drugs from Gavinne. After all, simply burning Gavinne into dust wouldn't bring them any profit, not to mention, as Thalassa was quick to point out – would just waste the gasoline. Better they use the gasoline for something else, like burning something worth burning.

Phoenix agreed – but then again, Phoenix would agree to just about anything Thalassa says. Every time the man opens his mouth around Diego, he winces. It's like hearing the lovelorn ranting of a six-year-old again. It doesn't matter how much the man's been through or what he does for a living - when he's in love, that spark just rises back to the forefront. A certain excited gleam in the eye that betrayed his simpler natures.

Thalassa being there was a good thing though – because while she was opposed to almost every sort of violence out there, she had the better contacts of the three of them, having been around Zak for so many years. She had the better connections too, because the opera runs more black deals than maybe their entire gang put together. It's a very selective place after all – exclusive and elite private boxes where anything from clandestine meetings to underground deals can be put forth. Being the manager of it, she's seen it all, known it all.

By the end of three hours, a plan, subtle enough for Thalassa's liking and violent enough for both Phoenix and Diego's liking was hatched. Thalassa rose from her armchair to signify that their discussion was at an end.

"Well, I think that about covers it all? I think you should be able to find _him_ without me...?"

"Of course." Phoenix bowed – far more dramatically than he usually is. "We have our own contacts as well."

"Excellent. I'll keep a ear out for news then and remember...Don't be so bloodthirsty."

"Utter sacrilege," Phoenix said agreeably. Thalassa nodded. The both of them escorted her out of the mansion, and before long, she was but a disappearing figure swathed in black silk like that of a mourning ghoul, gliding through a greenish night. The moment she disappeared through the door, Phoenix hurried to the window to stare out at her, watching up until the door to her car slammed shut. From the way he sighed, you would have thought she had just slammed her door in his face.

"Don't you think she's wonderful, Diego?"

"If I say that, you'll punch me – so no."

The taller man assumed his position behind him and looked out of the window too, though he was more preoccupied with the moonlight than he was with Thalassa.

"I think she is," He announced.

"Thou shalt not lust after thy boss's wife." Diego quipped, utterly deadpan. Phoenix shot him a dirty look.

"He's dead."

"As if you weren't when he was alive."

Phoenix had the audacity to look embarrassed. "Well, yeah."

Diego chuckled at the look on his face. It reminds him of those kind of looks he used to wore on his face, back when the sight of him made Diego's blood boil. Back when _she _was still alive and Diego had gotten his first tooth knocked loose by this apparently dim-witted man.

It's a good thing though. A fine thing. Like coffee. Except unlike coffee, he hadn't gone stale with the years. The clock hasn't frozen, and just the fact that he's staring out of the window looking like a lovelorn fool is proof that he's moved on, and is no longer hung up on it.

Wish Diego could say the same for himself, but ah, what does he know? They've got bigger things to fry, as they say – and first on their list would be Gavinne.

* * *

Apollo Justice takes a long time to recover from things. There's this once for example, when he fell from a second floor railing. He misplaced his knee, and months after that, he would pull the most gruesome face whenever he climbed up a stairs, even though the pain's completely gone. This, as Trucy puts it when she's in a kind mood, is called sympathetic pain. Apollo feels pain, and boy is he sympathetic of himself. Hence it's a cycle that never ends. Apollo feels pain. He is sympathetic of himself. Hence, he feels more pain.

That way, pain never goes away.

If you ask Apollo though, it's definitely not his fault. He just takes a long long time to recover from things – especially when this time around, even though he had came out of the proverbial bush intact and in one piece, his mind is definitely not. For an entire week after the incident on the bridge, he had what he called sympathetic nightmares. These nightmares seem to be in permanent mourning of the fact that he had survived the whole thing at all, and have made it their lives' mission to make every minute he spends sleeping a well, nightmare.

By the end of the week though, it became progressively better. When he closes his eyes, it's no longer black tendrils of grey smoke he sees, or the acrid smell of black he tastes in the air. There isn't that sick smell either, which sometimes in his dreams, it comes oozing right out of the tar on the ground. Sometimes the petroleum congeals instead, to form two claws to drag him right down with it like black guilt, and he'll go 'Oh, I shouldn't have done that.'

And indeed he shouldn't. Shouldn't have helped out with that friend of Klavier Gavinne's, because if he hadn't, that way he would have been able to convince himself that he's an innocent bystander. But he hadn't – had in fact helped – and no matter how small a part he plays in it, it's still a role. An actor on a stage, is an actor. Even if he only stands aside and spits into the fire, he is still another reason for it, whether because he had caused it actively, or because he had stood aside and watched it happen. But as he had mentioned – by the end of the week though, it just suddenly stopped. Kind of like realizing that you're getting diabetes one day while wallowing in massive amounts of sweet self-pity.

He got up at five that morning. Washed his face, gelled his hair, then went into a corner of the house and started shouting into the wall. He felt out of practice, and his throat got sore faster than normal – but it's a good kind of sore, because it means he's crawling out of depression and guilt. So instead, he slaps a sticky tape onto the whole thing : Fuggedaboutit, move on, they were jerks.

It's time to stop beating the proverbial horse to kingdom come and move on with the train called life, or get left behind.

Trucy approves of this of course. Apollo, as she had put it bluntly – had had enough of a pity party. If he doesn't watch it, he's gonna turn into one of those folks who always appear on TV with this five-inch thick beard spouting hippie stuff and the peace-out sign because they had apparently been abused in their childhood and now sees the light. Apollo does not point out that even if he wanted a five-inch beard, he would never have one, his chin being frozen in growth some time before puberty.

So instead, they compromise by sharing a huge bowl of cereal in front of the TV, where a anchorwoman is droning on in a boring tone. What she was saying wasn't boring though - far from it.

"Woah," Trucy exclaimed, staring at the screen like the TV had suddenly come to life and started doing the Jive. "That is a lot of blood."

There's a lot of blood, Apollo agrees, and a lot of dead people too. There's got to be a dozen of those, and they switch their attention back to the anchorwoman. Apparently, it had been found by a worker at the warehouse who had gone to check on it, instead finding the people there, taking one last bath in themselves. He had apparently had a pretty breakdown, thereafter which he contacts the newsagent and then file to press charges against his own boss for trauma.

"This is all very interesting," Trucy declared after three whole minutes of mindless mouth mashing and cereal consumption. "But it doesn't solve the Polly-nomial problem we're having right now."

"We have a problem?"

"Well, duh."

'Don't say 'duh' – that's not even a word." He complained. Young folks these days just keep making up words, and Apollo had no idea why they keep doing that. Doesn't the English vocabulary have enough words without them adding to it? Trucy only made a face at him.

"You need to get out and start working, seriously, or by the end of this month, we'll going back to cardboard boxes."

"Huh."

Apollo's face wiped clean of expression - usually a sign that he's thinking thoroughly and pretending not to be worried. The worry is there though, suddenly surfacing and coming with a harpoon to make tentative stabs at Apollo's stomach. It's like being reminded you have a deadline two weeks pass and you're not done yet, and your stomach, to put it simply, sinks.

"Uh, yeah, there is that."

"Don't 'there is that' me, Polly. What happened to it? Did that dreamy man called?"

"Stop calling him the dreamy man – he's got a name!" He gnashed his teeth at Trucy's smirk. It's been Klavier Gavinne this and Klavier Gavinne that. If Apollo wasn't more of a cheapskate, they would be drowning in Gavinners paraphernalia by now – and what is with that anyway? Who names their band after themselves? Isn't that kind of, oh, he don't know – obnoxious? So if he has three other band mates, is it supposed to be Gavin-Eple-Zylinder-Colfin-er? Jeez. Talk about lack of modesty.

A finger dug into his arm. "Polly..."

'Alright, alright, gee...He called, okay? The other day. Yesterday, actually – he called and asked me if my head is in the right place."

She peered up, as though to determine if it is indeed, on it's right place. "And is it?"

Apollo tweaked his antennas affectionately. They spring. "I think I am," He announced.

"Excellent."

They go back to eating their cereal.

Once they were done, Trucy trooped off to school the usual way – I.e, through Apollo's bicycle. It seems sort of ridiculous to him that now that they're rich – and Apollo's the kind of person who thinks having a grand or two in the bank is grand indeed – they still have to pedal to school to and fro like that. Ridiculous too, that as his sister is approaching the oh-so-wonderful period in life called teenagery, he's still ferrying her back and forth. Ridiculous as well, when he realized that he needs to call Klavier Gavinne to straighten things out before it lapses into that monochrome shade where things are undefined.

This stumped him, mostly because Apollo isn't a take-to kind of person. People call him, and people receive monosyllable textbook answers. He just...Doesn't call people is all. Doesn't know what to say.

Hi, I'm calling to confirm with you about my job? Seems too stiff, and reminds him too much of days fresh out of law school where he had to pedal from firm to firm to get jobs. He agonized over it all the way home, wondering how he's going to call up Klavier Gavinne. He agonized all the way up the stairs to their apartment too – but that agony turned out to be completely unnecessary, since the being he was agonizing over was standing right in front of their door, jabbing new holes into their doorbell.

"Ach! Everyone is deaf in this building!"

Apollo watched as the man cracked frustrated knuckles at the door.

"_I say!_ Achtung! Is anyone home!?"

Clearing his throat, Apollo called out. "The uh, doorbell doesn't work."

Klavier spun around to glare at him. "You would think he would replace---Ach."

"Ach. Uh, I mean...Hi."

Klavier stared at him like he had suddenly sprouted several bug feelers to replace his hair – and while he stared, Apollo was struck by well...How well he looked. He didn't look too special, too worried, too bushed.

The last time Apollo had seen him, he had been taking on the part-time job of mucking his chairs up, leaving dirt stains all over their boxes. He had looked kind of guilty then, and if not guilty, then a little repressed. Now he just looks normal though – less blown up and more like the person on Trucy's CD covers, and Apollo was torn between wanting to envy him for that kind of elasticity and pitying him for feeling so little.

"Well!" He declared, still blinking down at him. "Well! Well, well!"

"Well what?" Apollo returned.

"Well- I mean, Achtung!" The man shook his head like he was trying to clear it of lice or worrisome thoughts. There seems to be no words you can trade with a person who last you've seen, was through a thick cloud of black smoke though, and he finally settled on

"You look fine, Herr Justice."

"Um, thanks. I am. Fine that is. I'm fine. Totally fine."

"Ja, ja. I am too. That is, I am totally fine, ja?"

"I'm fine too. I mean – that is, I'm fine that you're fine."

The conversation, if it can be called that, went flying over the edge of a broken rail track screaming like a girl.

Apollo gave himself a mental kick, along with a physical ruffling of his own hair. This is getting ridiculous – it's like he's ten again and asking the milk monitor if he can have another bottle of the white stuff – but it wasn't like he could help it. He felt all sorts of misplaced when speaking to Klavier Gavin, as if all spotlights were suddenly on every bump on his skin.

"Actually," He started, attempting to rail the awkwardness back into place. It's always hardest to speak to acquaintances when you're not buttering them with book-perfect answers, but you've got to start somewhere, right? "You came just at the right time. I was going to call you."

"You have a _phone line_ in your house?" Klavier asked him, looking incredulous. "You mean, a genuine phone line, ja? Not the thing that you stick up using two cans?"

"Of course not!" Apollo protested. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"But ja – it's not ridiculous. You don't have a doorbell after all, what's to say you have a phone line?"

"I _do_ have a doorbell! It just...Doesn't function well, is all!"

"Ja, like the Mona Lisa does not function well in a ballet class." Apollo opened his mouth to tell him where he could stick those comments of his – but Klavier was grinning, and maybe Apollo would too if he wasn't too preoccupied. Some things never change, 'eh? Least of all in a week.

"I am a mature, self-sufficient adult. I will not get into an argument with you about dancing paintings." Apollo announced in his stiffest voice. "I will speak of business, and only of serious matters : We need to talk."

"Ja – that is what I came here too – to see if you're up and bouncing. But I see you are, ja?"

The antennas dipped in a nod. "I am. And I will presume that you are here for..."

"The job, yes. Liam called in today and told us they're flooded with jobs, both for the gang and outside – so if you're up to it, it's suggested that you be moved in today, immediately."

"Of course," He nodded again, all business. What he needs is his notebook, and it'll be all systems go. As though reading his mind, Klavier checked his watch, saying aloud.

"It's almost ten now, Herr Forehead. You should get whatever it is that you need – pen, papers, books, that sort of thing – and then we'll ship you in pronto pronto into your new office."

Apollo nodded in agreement and hurried off into the apartment to gather up his stuff. There weren't much – after all, there really isn't nothing his new workplace can't provide, so before long, the both of them were rushing down the roads on Klavier's hog. Apollo practically flew off, and he fancied his gums were showing at the rate the meters were turning. It brought back unpleasant memories of the 'accident' on the bridge too, and he had no idea if he should be thankful that they arrive so quickly, or tearful.

The 'little' firm, as Klavier put it condescendingly, was directly next to Elmer's, a frequented performing ground of Trucy's. It's not terribly far – and she usually gets there by bus. It's a couple of corners away from Lordly Tailor, and while coated with those sort of dark wood that always gives off the intimidating impression of a grimy jazz bar, it wasn't a bad place, if a little small.

Apollo had expected that any firm Gavinne set up would be so opulent it rival Marvin Grossberg's office down the road. No one is in the clueless when it comes to how gaudy the man's office is, if it's said with just a little tinge of jealousy. Apollo had expected Gavinne's firm, the one he set up – to be exactly the same. Perhaps slightly more tasteful, but opulent and pointlessly decorated nonetheless. Instead, it surprised him.

It was about a couple of shoplots down Elmers, on the second floor – through a stairway not unlike that of their apartment's. It's clean, a little hypochondriac, with grey carpets that people use when they want to look professional but beyond that...

Nothing. No golden gilded stuff, no heavy hanging tapestry, no family tree that traces back to the Mayflower, and when examined closely, all the way to the dinosaurs. No indeed – and when Klavier opened the door to usher him into the place with a ceremonious flourish, he felt rather like a child who's gone through Charlie's little magical routes, with the marked the difference that it was just so...Bland.

So normal, when he had half expected something that screamed Mafia! Like maybe...Guns on the walls, or cigar ashtrays. Instead, it was just a simple office, parted into two distinct segments with one desk each, and another one crammed into the back of the place, obviously new with it's plastic wrapped desk.

Someone was shouting before they even opened the door. "Oh Lord! Liam! Liam!"

"Yes?"

"There's no file here! What in the name of shit, man?"

"Look closely, it should be somewhere th---

"It's not here!"

"Look carefully --Ah, Mr. Gavinne."

"Hey folks." Klavier greeted, one hand in a casual half-wave. "'Sup?"

One of the lawyers (?) - who looked like he just stepped out of an episode of those shows where they try to polish bachelors into presentable cucumbers – looked up. And by bachelor shows, Apollo meant those that hadn't undergo the process – I.e, dirty and unkempt.

"Oh Jesus, it's the Lord God. Hey, Lord God. 'Sup?"

"Jacques...That's really not how you speak to a potential client."

"He's already our client, stiff."

"Which is why--'

Apollo winced. Klavier commented discreetly behind a masked cough. "They look like comic relief, don't they? I know how they look, but they do their job well."

Apollo eyed the Asian-looking guy, who looked like a Type A Terminator Deluxe Package. Then at the other Spanish Casanova Waiter.

"You can say that again."

Klavier chuckled long enough to step forward to look the two in the eye. Asian Guy in glasses hurriedly stored away his paperwork, which looked rather like a redundant effort, considering that the papers were well, everywhere. Apollo was starting to feel at home.

"Well, Lee, Constans. Can we gather within shaking distances?"

Frowning, the four of them grouped up in the middle of the office, towered all around by untidy files stacked one on another. "Well, hello," Asian Guy said, noticing Apollo for the first time. Even then, he seems to be looking at a spot beyond Apollo's hair – and Apollo didn't believe for one second that he was too tall to look at him properly. "It's good to meet you sir, are you here in search of legal aid?"

"We don't have time, if that's what you want," The other announced. "We don't have time. Tell him we don't have time at all, Liam."

"We don't have time at all," Then as if that cannot possibly impress how busy they were, he added. "We're awfully busy, there's just too many cases for the both of us to handle."

Apollo quirked a lip upward. These two do looked sort of well...Overworked, is that the word? He looked at Klavier, but there was a veil that had risen up between the brows there. Something's there to be hidden that someone doesn't want to speak of.

"Ach, it's just a busy period in life – you get those back in the P.D, don'tcha?"

"Yeah, we did."

"Hmm? You used to work at the P.D?" The man asked again, still looking at that spot beyond the tip of Apollo's hair. That irritated Apollo.

"Who? Me or the wall?"

The man looked positively alarmed, before looking him in the eye. "I ah- My, I'm sorry." He shoved at his drooping glasses. "Just that uh, from where I came from, it's a little rude to stare at people's face."

"Well we're in America now, and we kind of like it when we're treated differently from the walls."

"Ahem. Yes, well, I'll keep that in mind." He shoved at the glasses again.

Apollo's heart was going at a mile a minute – he's never dared to speak like that to anyone before, much less someone who has seniority on him. But this is a new start, and he refused to start it by having colleagues who look at the wall when they're speaking to him. It's rude, he doesn't like it, and if this is going to be a fresh start, if he's going to deal with all these kind of stuff, well, he'll be damned if he's going to do it cowering behind people's back.

He stared back defiantly at Klavier, and he chuckled. "Brava, Herr Justice. You are developing the vertebrate, yes?"

No answer to that, so Apollo just grunt. The other, unkempt one looked at him with renew respect. "Hey! Nice to see someone with a bone around here for a change. Maybe we can work you into our schedule after all – but then again, who are you man, and what dog tag do you go by?"

Apollo looked at Klavier, bewildered.

The man simply chuckled. "Eh, Allow me to introduce. Apollo, this is Jacques Constans--" He pointed at the mess. And then at Asian Guy, "And that's Liam Lee. You two, this is Apollo Justice, your new pardner. Rodeo him well, folks."

Both men goggled at him, and Apollo tilted his face upwards to be inspected. He's not backing down – nuh-uh. It's all about the package and the selling. You act like a worm and people treat you like a worm – one year of life is enough to teach him all he needs to know of it, thank you very much.

Constans was the first to recover. "Well!" He announced. That seems to be the favourite word of the day or something. "Well, hello there! I heard from the Gentleman that we'll be having a new cowpoke, but I had no idea it would be that fast. Thought you know, it's someone he needs to extract from the hospital first."

Klavier gave him a long-suffering look. "Mouth, Constans."

"A-yup. Sowwy, big boy."

Lee shoved at his glasses violently. Apollo would have warned him that the glasses would go flying off his face if he shoves any harder.

"Well, that's quite a surprise. Good to meet you, good to meet you." He stuck out a hand to be shaken, and it is shook. There's a slight tinge in his voice – not an accent, but something along the lines of a 'too-perfect' sort of chime. You know how little kids sound when they're reciting their stories for their classes? Exactly like that – precise, with each tone clipped out like he needs to consult Merriam-Webster before speech is facilitated.

In the next hour, Apollo is shown his place in the office, being as he had mentioned, the plastic-wrapped desk in the corner. The plastic is peeled off, with a little help from Klavier's untrimmed nails (They couldn't locate the scissors) and the table is unveiled with a twang of those plastic smells. It's moved into a reasonably more centre part of the office (Apparently, there won't be space for his files if one side of it is cut into the wall, since they're going to need table extensions to cope with the stuff they had) and Apollo is welcomed into it by receiving a large stack of cases to work with.

"Your files," Lee announces solemnly, like Apollo had just been handed the black death.

Apollo put them into his cabinet (Almost one and a half foot wide, bitch) and couldn't resist stepping backwards to admire it a little. It's not the most awesome office in the world – there aren't any secretaries or assistants around unless they get really snowed under, since most of their work are 'discreet' and cannot be manhandled by secretaries with more breasts than brains. It's not the best colleagues in the world either – Lee was a little well, Type A, and Constans won't for the life of him _shut up_. But it's _HIS_ office,

He's a partner in it, and as soon as they finish up the business cards they have (Which will take only a short while, because most of their clients can't remember their own serial number long enough to dial back home to momma) they'll get them reprinted with a new format, applying Apollo's name to it. It'll read Lee, Constans, and Justice, as soon as Constans gets over his fat head that someone who works as hard as him should get first place on the name thing. It's not the most wonderful place on Earth, with one side of the office talking non-stop and the other side permanently agitated about something, but hey – it's a nice change, a good sort of change.

The three-fold pay is kind of nice too.

Klavier did not look as impressed though, as he picked through Apollo's new stack of files. He spotted one that was thicker than normal, and labelled in an atrocious pink colour. "Well, well, what do we have here? Some hot pink, ja?"

He browsed through it, and Apollo peered over his shoulder at the file. It was for a murder case, scheduled next week or so for a trial. The defendant was some young gangster who had taken down some doctor, which Klavier must have known, because he whistled and commented, "Wow, Meraktis is dead? That's new news, though it ain't exactly fresh..."

That comment would have been strange coming from some random hippie on the street, but then this is Klavier, who doesn't seem to bat eyelashes when there are bats in his soup, even though he does look like a flower child. It reminded Apollo of something though.

'Say, you know that news this morning?"

Another one of those shadow flickered across Klavier's face. Apollo had made the comment as passing conversation, but seeing the shadow just made him curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. He peered up at the taller man, whose eyes were firmly aimed at the file.

"Were those guys like, part of your gang or something?"

"What? Nein, nein, those aren't our guys no," He said this with a slight sort of frown. From the opposite end of the office, Jacques chirped up from behind a box.

"Maybe, but these guys, they're like spider web, man. You ask one man who your best friend Ben's wife's doing, and they'll tell you, all facts straight – like Wiki, only better. Mafia wikia, so to roll. Oh hey! I made it rhyme!"

"Congrats you," Klavier laughed. "But yeah, I guess you could say I know of it. Not my brother's men though."

"Oh," Apollo chewed on his lower lip. "Whose gang was it then? They look kinda uh, you know, devastated."

Klavier sighed dramatically, and slammed the file shut. "You, Herr Forehead, is like Alice, you know? On one hand you keep telling me you don't want to be involved with us, on the other hand, you question me like a cop." He opened both hands wide. "So fine. Shoot away, Herr Alice."

"You don't have to be snappy," He retorted. "I was just curious, I mean – they were fascinating. N-No wait, that's not what I meant, uh I mean--"

"You were curious, after the whole incident, as to how the standard process is done, I understand, ja?"

Apollo's shirt collar suddenly grew massive tentacles to strangle him stupid. "I um, well, yes. I'm curious. Mind filling me in? - Without the gore, of course."

"Ja, ja, alright. I get it, Herr Lily Liver."

"Stop calling me names!" Apollo snapped irritably.

Klavier ignored him. "So you see, this process of mafiaso, it's not quite unlike when a man meets a woman, ja? When a man meets a woman, it is two things : Love or peace. It's either that they get together and make many love childs, or they walk by each other and peace out." He shrugged haplessly. "Now, on occasion, there will be instead, moments where not love, and not peace, but war, which breaks out..."

Apollo gnashed his teeth. "Hand me the pepper jar please, I need to spice up all these snark.'

"Of course." He concurred demurely. "Now, when war breaks out, people get hurt, ja? If I don't like your face right now, for example, Herr Forehead, and you are on the opposite camp, I will not hesitate to do you grievous and terrible injuries, ja?"

"You will?"

Klavier smirked. "Ah, but the forehead, it is so huge. I think I will stay my hand. It is too much a wonder to be injured so haphazardly."

If there is a heavy bottle in the room right now, Apollo won't hesitate to brain the man with it. Getting an answer out of him is like weeding through a haystack, finding a needle in a bush. There's just no getting a non-sparkly answer out of him, is there?

"Hmm." Klavier flicked through another one of Apollo's soon-to-be case files, before tossing them onto the other side of the table like they were wasted tissue. Flick and throw, flick and throw. Apollo was too busy racking his brains for questions to ask to be too bothered.

It wasn't like he wanted to make a B-Grade mafia show, it was just that he liked to know what he's getting to. That way, he can do research and prepare papers and reports if the need ever arises. He's just been thrown into a new aquarium now, and he wants to know every nook and cranny before embarking on some kind of topsy-turvy, tune-whistling journey down it.

"What about the rumoured drug shipment?" Apollo asked the other man. He remembered the TV saying something about there being rumours afoot, and anonymous tip-off of a shipment that had got pass the border of the city. Klavier looked up long enough from the files to give him a frown – not a censorious one, but a truly puzzled one.

"What drug shipment?"

"Uh, dunno, I just heard some sort of rumour about it on TV today."

"Herr Forehead, you are not a woman, ja? Do not gossip, or you'll never be like me."

"I don't want to be like you," Apollo shot back. He didn't seem to be hiding anything though, unlike the slight frown that he got when he mentioned the gang casualties earlier. But with every word being traded, it became all the more obvious that if there was a drug shipment, Klavier knew nothing about it.

If that's the case, isn't it strange? Shouldn't he be in the know, considering that his brother was Kristoph Gavinne himself? Or does Kristoph Gavinne trust not even his own brother?

"Don't worry that solid forehead over something like this," He announced jokingly. "There's no way a shipment of drugs is going to get pass the border of the city. Just look at the set up they have at the tolls, and you'll know – my brother is many things, but he is not God, ja? How would he move them in?"

Made sense. All shipments in the city go pass the state, no exception. All cargo? Checked. It's a source of great constraint on both the force and the merchants part, and every five days or some some man in a suit is going to stand up behind a podium and address flashing lights on it. You can of course, try to crawl pass it, but that's highly doubtful.

Apollo nodded. "Yeah, makes sense." He announced agreeably. Klavier agreed with an affable sort of smile too.

"So, Herr Forehead – does that satiate all your greatly curious curiosity about the tunes we sing?"

"If things like the fight on the pier is a normal occurrence, than no thanks – I rather not know. Like you said, I'm not part of that anyway."

"'Ja, true." He said.

They went back to the files, sifting through it lightly. Klavier pointed out a few that he might be working on – and they might meet in court. Apparently, that would be where they'll meet from here on out, since it wasn't like Klavier had some kind of obligation to babysit him. Apollo was a little relieved too – being around Klavier seems to have a bad effect on him. One helping of sunshine and lightness, and he starts thinking that maybe life isn't a long calculus homework.

This is bad. Optimism sets you up for a fall, not that he's going to tell the man that. To each his own.

They chatted around work, before Constans called out from the other side of the office irritably. "Hello! Are you done talking or can you get to work yet, man?"

Apollo flushed. Caught slacking, and on the first day of work too.

"Alright, alright," He called out in answer. He looked up at Klavier, the understandable message being that Klavier would get in the way. The man just smiled though, obviously beyond such petty insults as these. He nodded affably and moved out of the way, announcing farewell.

"Achtung, folks. Well, since we're all warm and comfy and settled, I think I'd better be going. My brother called for me earlier so I gotta go, ja?"

No one bothered answering.

"And hmm. Why is this place so stuffy anyway..." He walked towards the window, muttering all the way. "Good ventilation, that's what I always say—Mmm?"

He hooked two fingers into the window sides and pulled it up, before frowning down at the street outside like it was a great offensive tumour.

"What's wrong? Fell out of the window?" Apollo asked.

"Eh? Nein. I just thought...I saw a man there with a camera, is all – but he disappeared off the corner so fast I couldn't see properly."

"Huh," He grunted. "Probably your fans or something."

"Ja, probably." Klavier pushed himself off the window, and dusted his hands. Then he was off, sauntering towards the exit to leave the three busy mice to their relative peace.

"Well then, ciao-ciao, Apollo. I don't expect to see you soon, but keep in touch...And maybe my secretary will pick up, ja?"

He cackled all the way out, and Apollo rolled his eyes at the back of his head. Childish children are childish. He went back to work, but he was smiling as he did so – life does look good, doesn't it?"

* * *

In case you're wondering why Klavier isn't ridiculing Apollo anymore, it's this : He can't be expected to insult Apollo all day long. He's not that mean anyway, and he only did it earlier because he was worried about his brothers. Just to uh, you know, deflect questions.


	9. VIII : Blossoming

It actually follows the Canon storyline, in some ways, in case you haven't noticed so um...Don't worry about, it always levels off in the end. Just takes time...Well, what don't I do that takes time? I'm so god-damned slow and long-winded.

Anyone still sticking to this? I applaud you for your patience. :X

* * *

_Eight : Blossoming_

Kristoph Gavin is not a difficult man, nor a complex organism, contrary to popular belief. He doesn't demand the impossible of life, nor does he expect everything to be symmetrical in it's perception. Of himself however, he's often so. Life you see, is like a sandwich to him. You don't accept sandwiches that are made from jelly and peanut, do you? No, if you must have a sandwich, then you must have one that is edible, and not only edible – but delectable. It's sliced into two, and when it comes down to it, it's very simple. Put the best spread on your two slices, and whatever comes out, if not gourmet, then it is halfway so.

Accept perfection, and nothing but perfection.

The current report he was thumbing through with the expertise of a Wall Street cut-throat however, seems to disagree with that superscription of himself. The report, as clearly stated under subtitle 7, is that something is up that he doesn't like.

"The Eastern triads, they were arrested?"

"Yes sir," LeTouse intoned. His voice is grave and gravelly, like a man shouting out eulogies at a funeral, all in black. He sounds like the very pavement a person walks on – which well he should, because this is no laughing matter.

"They were arrested practically hours before they made the firearms exchanged with us," Kristoph announced. Last night actually, it was. Right after the 'borrowing' of the misplaced drugs, Kristoph had gone on to arrange another deal with a gang down the Eastern side of L.A – except, lo and behold, as the news would announce tomorrow – they had all been busted literally hours before the exchange was to take place. If it had been any later, Kristoph himself would have been in hot soup, and if not hot soup, then a well-simmered broth.

"Yes, they have."

"What happened to them, precisely?"

"They were arrested when they were arranging for the firearms they were trading over to be prepared. Needless to say, the stuff were with them at that time, and they were subsequently...Arrested."

"Under the charge of possession?"

"Yes, Mr. Gavinne."

"Tch."

Kristoph swivelled around, staring unhappily at his own window. It overlooks down into his trimmed and pruned yard – not done by him of course. As much as Kristoph loved the art of horticulture, he had no time for these sort of pleasantly leisures any more. He should take a break sometime or other though, and snip a couple of roses off, 'less he fall like snipped roses from stroke.

"What did the police act on?"

"It was apparently a tip-off of some kind, according to the brief interview CA's given to the press."

"A tip off," Kristoph repeated. "A tip off."

"Yes, boss – a tip off."

If Kristoph is a less-dignified man, he would have kicked something in anger. It wasn't the money he was so concerned with – one bust or two, especially not of him, is not going to affect him one way or another. No, it was more of the principle of the thing. Someone is ratting out on his deals – how many times has it been after all, this past month, that whoever he's dealing with had been arrested? At least three, if memory doesn't fail him. At least three, and there were already rumours circulating the roads like fungus with their spore.

Kristoph could care less what people think of him, oh he could care a lot less indeed. Kristoph is a social butterfly, and he's not about to let his reputation go down the sewers in a five mile-long slide customized for smooth sailing, paraded as a backstabber, no matter how true it was.

"A tip off," He repeated angrily again. "Exactly who is this person who has been tipping off the police, may I know, LeTouse?"

'We have no idea, in all honesty. It's been anonymous, and everyone we've bribed is either clammed on it, or they have no idea at all."

"An anonymous one, is it?'

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, go and de-anonymous this anonymous tip-off won't you, LeTouse? And do me a favour – don't come back until you have something to show for it."

The big man bowed. You bow to your superior, no exceptions. You don't talk back to Kristoph Gavinne either – and if he asks you to climb to the moon equipped with a snowboard and a length of rope, you had better bite on the rope and start shooting yourself up at the moon. Eat more vitamin C, jump more – it doesn't matter what. Just do something, or don't do anything at all.

"Yes boss." He straightened to leave. One last business thing to clarify before he left for good though : "There's also the deal with those...Urban fellows. Do we go on with it, with things as it is – and do we tell Klavier to represent us, as usual?"

Kristoph's face froze, before like nevermeltice, melted into a grim image of a smile. "There's no need for that. And no, don't tell Klavier...About anything."

"Not even the..."

"No. Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

LeTouse said nothing – it's no secret how paranoid Kristoph can be when the ugly head of suspicion rolled itself around. He retreated out of the room, and Kristoph had spun back around to stare at the window before his rear end even disappeared completely beyond the smooth polished doors. The window grinned back at him, clouded all over by the sprinklers almost directly under the window. It sprays out every half an hour or so, clouding the windows. It makes the place cooler you see, less like a wrapped up foil burning on a stove and more like an abode.

Kristoph grimaced at it.

Something isn't right. Every single deal that they had made this past month, with the exception of a few – have been intercepted. One and all, they were gone. It's almost always the opposition who gets arrested first, moments before the deal is forged – so that they are caught red-handed with the goods and nothing to argue for it.

No mitigating circumstances, and not the most proficient lawyer you can find can argue something out. They were, and will be – announced guilty, no exceptions, as thorough as a lawnmower that slides over a meadow, slicing them down in an arc. Rat-a-tat-tat, gone like rats in the great flood. Even with the drug shipment, this can't go on forever, or he'll be ruined.

Those that were arrested will be gone for a long long time, and Kristoph had no idea if he should praise the new matron of CA for doing such a good job, or to lambaste the name with the foulest words for doing too good a job.

Lambaste, he decided. If this has been happening less frequently, Kristoph might have chalked it up as a coincidence. After all, it's not that rare that CA bursts in in the hope of catching someone with their hands in the cookie jar. His own deals have been frequently walked-in on. But it's been happening so frequently that to say it's just coincidence is to defy the rule of probability, groping it roughly down from it's throne and muddying it's face.

And though it wasn't so dire that it puts the gang's finances in jeopardy – merely limiting how fast they can sell their stuff – it was a...Nuisance to say the least. Kristoph's been sleeping with one eye open recently, wondering when the door will be thrown apart by Klavier or LeTouse or someone or other, telling that their men had just been swept off along with a cargo of equipment.

So now that we have established that there's no such thing as coincidences, what do we next establish?

Problem, cause, solution.

Problem, cause, solution.

Nothing in the world cannot be solved with that. The world? It's a problem. The cause? The people. How do you solve it? Remove the people. Everything can be broken down into those principles, if less drastic forms of them. You can put just about anything into those terms and it'll be solved – and Kristoph believed in solving problems with the same religiosity people believed in men pinned on a letter of the alphabet.

And the cause, when it comes, is so simple that Kristoph has to resist shaking himself and demanding to know where his grey matter had been all these weeks. Isn't it obvious? Someone, some bastard had been ratting out on them – it can't be anything but.

He's monitored the Gramaryes and Dee Vasquez's little sugar parades. There's nothing to indicate that the same thing's been happening to them. One or two perhaps, of their business deals had been thwarted before they materialized – but those were usually because Kristoph had an interim before that.

In short, only their deals had been thwarted, which means, the solution? It is beyond simple : Someone's been selling them out.

Someone's a rat, a sneak. Thirty years ago in a badly written script, they'll call someone like this a mole. Now people just call these people a bitch, a sneakity-sneakity little bitch that's been sniffing where it ought not. What Kristoph would call Pandora – a Pandora who's been opening boxes she have no right in opening, poking those itchy fingers where they should not romp so caressively. Or as his brother would put it, a fuckfinger.

Kristoph chuckled at that thought, though the laughter died when he thought of the next step. Remember : Problem, cause, solution. No exceptions. The cause is a leak in the ship, but there's still no telling who had punctured the hole so cleanly into the bottom of their liner with a grade-A shovel.

Someone's been selling their deals to the CA, and Kristoph doesn't like it. It has to be someone with access to information. Someone high on the ranks who know about almost all the deals, someone for example, who has access to almost every business deal he has. Someone's who's almost always informed, like for example--

A knock sounded on the door, and Kristoph turned around. He was about to wave his hands when he realized that they had been tightly knotted in his lap, twisting into themselves like twin serpents that's gone and gallivant without him knowing it. No, this is not a good thing, not a fine thing. Kristoph Gavinne is and will always be the perfect calm person in public, and it wouldn't do good at all if someone knew he was capable of third sphere emotions.

The door slide apart without permission at the third knock, and Klavier's head slipped in, grinning cheerfully. "Guten Morgen, brother."

Those were his first words, accompanied with a jolly sort of grin. The rest of him follow that mop of blonde hair, and Klavier was leaning across him, both hands on the table before he knew it.

"Achtung, this bundle of awesome is here to visit, and you do not greet?"

Ah yes. There is of course, another person other than LeTouse and his other right hand men – one that has even better access to the CA. Don't forget that.

"Hello, brother," Kristoph returned, smiling pleasantly.

* * *

Three knocks before, Klavier had been standing outside the door, humming to himself. He knows someone is in there with his brother – can hear his brother making snarky comments all the way out here, and he hadn't bothered interrupting him, despite the fact that they're probably cooking up a witch's broth in there.

Klavier's many things as well in life, one of it was loyal. Maybe in some kind of alternate universe where he hadn't spend years coming to terms with the fact that his brother is guiltier than the blackest sinner he clapped chains onto, he might be appalled at his brother. As it is now, he's had seven or so years to come to terms with the fact that his brother is simply one of many. As Kristoph is fond of putting it, if he's not around to make nasty, then another nastier ogre will replace him. Fact of life. Klavier likes this kind of life. Crime, explosions, things go boom – every man's action flick fantasy. Fact of life too.

The door opens and LeTouse walks out, nodding politely at him. They don't trade words. Klavier's always thought of LeTouse as kind of well, like lettuce. No, it wasn't just the name either – he just literally look like he has as many stony layers as said vegetables. Unlike an onion – which you know reveals a stinkier layer when peeled – a lettuce can hide anything from a worm to vegetable freshness. It's not just LeTouse either – he viewed almost all his brother's subordinates that way.

Competitors to the amazing spot of Kristoph's affection, prize being eternal gratitude in the form of dumping you over the edge when you've outrun your usefulness, yup yup.

He knocked on the door, as mentioned – and now he stood opposite his brother, grinning mischievously. In his hands were the maroon file he came to present, quite like a child holding up his Grade A semester report with an affable grin.

"Kristoph," He announced, shaking the file like it was Kristoph's Christmas present. "Guess what I brought you."

Kristoph looked at the file in his hands in amusement. "I don't know."

"Go on, just guess."

He heaved out a mock-sigh. "If I wanted to guess, Klavier, I would have signed up for Wheel of Fortune – or watch politicians converse. I don't want to guess."

Klavier chuckled at the image of Kristoph standing in front of a multicoloured cardboard cutout of a wheel.

"Alright, alright, no need to guess then, you girl," He handed the file over to his brother, cased in a thin sheet of plastic by his secretary after he's spilled coke onto it countless times a day. So he's a little careless with his files sometimes – it wasn't like they're not as replaceable as the people detailed in them.

"Here you go – a little gift," He pointed a dramatic finger at himself. "From me to you, ja?"

Kristoph picked the file up almost lazily, flicking through it. He perked up the moment he got onto page 3 though – where the defendant's name was listed. Wocky Kitaki. Case file had come in hours after he send Apollo on his merry way into fortune, with one note from his superior and one note alone. Carefully handle, it's fragile.

"Ah, Kitaki," His brother mused. "What crime has the boy gone and got himself involved in this time?"

Klavier smirked. He never fails to run to his brother every time another one of those pesky gang members get themselves arrested on the grounds of stupidity. It's a little come-uppance to the law he allegedly loves so much, a little like going behind the back of a lover. It's this way with all the other gangs too – the court is an illusion, an allusion to the great heights of justice it is alleged of being capable of – when after all, every single outcome is determined by the lawyers, whom are in turn controlled by the gangs.

They're a little like wild meat puppets, attached on all limbs with strings and made to dance to the tune of their masters. If a person is no longer needed, then those strings are snipped, and a lawyer is given the go-ahead. Defense? Be flimsy, be paltry, be a defendant's nightmare. Prosecution? Don't hold back – eat them for dinner.

Yeah, the court is just that way.

"The usual crimes?" Kristoph pressed. Klavier shook his head.

"Nein. It isn't – or at least it doesn't end at assault alone this time."

Kristoph's lips stretched further into an amused smile. "Really. How many times has the boy been hauled in? I'm really quite thankful you're not like this boy."

Klavier grinned. Aww, isn't that cute? His brother's giving him a compliment! Next thing you know they'll be snowing down in the equator. "Thanks, brother – but that's of no consequence, ja? I am not – and I think I can be quite useful if I want to be."

"Indeed," Came the musing. The file was read from cover to cover, making those plastic thwacks that covers made when you bend them around a little. When he was done, he replaced the file on the table and slid it over like a ball on a snooker table.

"I see Pal Meraktis is dead. How unfortunate."

"Ja, it really is too bad," Klavier joked. "Now Zee won't be getting a consultation for his elbow – until we find another doctor in the gang business that is."

Zee was not Kristoph's concern, and the only response he had to that was a grunt.

"But ja, I thought you would have known about Meraktis before I came running," Klavier remarked slyly. A look of disgruntlement cross his brother's features, before settling itself into another one of those long-suffering looks that seem to tell the world : Look, how I suffer indeed, speaking with these foolish mortals.

"If I know everything, Klavier, I would have built a bridge and joined God right up there. You know full well I would know nothing if it wasn't for informers and you – so you can stop fishing around for compliments."

Busted. Klavier coughed modestly, and slapped the file from hand to hand. "Ja well – now you know. Pal Meraktis is, so to speak, sleeping with the fishes."

"I see." The conversation trailed off into silence, as Kristoph contemplated the new piece of information, probably cooking up something scheming while he's at it. Klavier himself could think of a half a dozen ways this could come in handy – blackmail, first and foremost on the list for example. Risky but perfectly possible. He pulled up the chair opposite his brother's and dropped into it.

"So," He announced a moment later. "What do we do? Do we act on it? Justice was hired for the case – you would have thought they would look closely before dumping it into just any attorney's hands - so it'll be possible to tag-team it into just about any verdict you care for."

"Justice?" One eyebrow went up. "He's been reinstated into the office?"

"Ja."

"Good, good, that's excellent...Wocky Kitaki, hmm? Is he guilty of the crime?"

Klavier opened the file in half, neatly bisecting it and stared into it's depths. He's gone through it before, but even though the evidences coincide, the only thing that really shouts guilty is the defendant himself. Everything else is more like...Circumstantial. It could go either way, and down in the PO they call these stuff wild cards. Play it right, the game's yours. Play it like Payne, and you'll be in for pain. Things that can go either way to whack you round and round.

"I don't think so," He said into the frowning depths of the documents. "I mean, that boy – he talks tough, but he just doesn't look it. I know you always tell me not to judge people by their appearances but..."

"He really doesn't look like it, hmm?"

"Ja. I don't think he's guilty."

"Hmm..."

Kristoph whirred around, and turning to his window, stared out at the misty look on it. The sheen of sprinkler-water his brother insists on having, combined with the scorching sun, smears a layer of droplets onto it. These are the clairvoyant balls to every decision Kristoph makes – he consults these first. Not Klavier, not LeTouse, not the mirror mirror on the wall - but the droplets dripping lazily down the window, screaming watery screams in their hassle to slide off it before the sun sucks them up a million feet into the sky to rejoin their brethren.

Finally he turned back around. "Leave him be then."

"Eh...Ach? Are you feeling well, brother?" Klavier joked. Kristoph only smiled thinly.

"Kitaki had mentioned that they're leaving the gang business. I see no bone to pick with them as long as they leave, and besides..."

"Ja?"

"No, nothing. When is his trial set to be?"

Klavier flipped onto the last page, where a calender had been mindfully tacked onto it. It screamed schedule – and is just about the only way he keeps his job in order. Maybe one of these days, Klavier should hire someone like that forehead to be his secretary – completely Type A and all-powerful when it comes to remembering appointments, the perfect stereotype.

"It's in two weeks," He announced, pinpointing the numbers he wanted. "It's delayed because the court wants to process it first – on account of him being technically underaged."

"Ah." Kristoph doesn't add to it, and the the subject drops. Klavier does not resurrect it. If his brother wanted to leave the kid alone, he's not going to tell him otherwise – forcefully putting the innocent in jail leaves a bad taste in his mouth anyway, even though he's seen enough to know that no one person is ever truly innocent.

Instead, Kristoph pinned him with a sly glance as though to say : _And what of your agenda? You have one, don't you?_

Klavier flushed.

He had come here with the best of intentions – to see if his brother wanted to dispose of Wocky Kitaki – Klavier would be able to see to that. Apollo Justice seems to be the defense attorney that Lee had assigned onto the case after all, and he_ is_ under his brother's service.

No, don't call him a hypocrite.

Truth is a very malleable subject, and once the 'truth' has been gotten, it can be misinterpreted. Klavier might go on and on about truth and whatnot most of the time – but he never once mentioned the one word that people like to associate the 'truth' with. He never once mentioned justice. You see, justice is a completely different thing from the truth.

The truth is a curiosity, something that like the thirst of a man climbing out of Nebraska after having foot it all the way across it, it needs to be quenched. The truth must be found, by means fair and foul, and only when the truth is found and that curiosity quenched will Klavier, ever the cat, be satisfied. 'Truth' does not mean anything though. Just like knowing a man is dying of cancer doesn't entitle you to do anything for him. Somewhere out there someone's dying of liver failure, you're not sending your liver out with FedEX, are you? The same thing applies.

He wants that truth, but misinterpreting it is another story entirely. He knows what's happening, but that doesn't mean he can't twist reality. Once a person is convicted, a 'truth' is merely a knowledge after all, something to be buried under the busy dust of everyday life. This is one of the things that his brother hadn't taught him : Separating the truth from the right thing. Done for health purposes.

Don't judge him – he'll judge you.

But just because he came with the best sort of intentions – to serve as the perfect brother and rubbed the law's face a little – doesn't mean he can't do so with an agenda. _Yes, take a look, law, you bitchy little mistress. Does it feel good to have your agents backstabbing you? It feels good for me – it sure does _– feels like he's beating the par, beating the rules. Going against the norm and flaunting against the status quo.

Kristoph tapped his fingers impatiently. "Klavier?"

"Huh?"

"Stop daydreaming – what did you really come here for? It can't be for the file – you've never done more than call for these."

"And if I tell you it was because I missed looking at your face?" Klavier retorted.

"Then I'll tell you to look at the mirror – we look similar enough," He shot back.

Klavier laughed, and raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. It's like a Gavinne family thing – this is how they bond. I come bearing gifts, as well as a club to do your head in. Isn't that funny? Haw-haw. Klavier grinned at him, before letting it sink below a layer of seriousness.

"I actually came here to ask you about the latest tete-a-tete at the pier."

"Ah. The one where _Tin_ and _Wright _had their little exchange of fisticuffs?"

Just the slightest inflection on both names – to make it clear that he's not involved. Klavier grinned at him, just to show him he hadn't missed that little attempt to fob off responsibility.

"A-yup – that would be the one."

"And what of it?"

Klavier put both elbows on the table and leaned a little forward. The wood's so well polished he can see his own reflection in it's glossy depths – but for once, his eyes weren't for himself. "I heard you had a hand in it – that you were the one who ratted out to Tin about something, and sparked the whole thing."

"Is that so," He returned coolly. One hand righted his glasses, a habit of his brother's that – over the long years – Klavier had come to recognize as his stalling tactic. Most people have one. Some pretend to be deep in thought, some hum, and some stroke their chins. Kristoph is to right his glasses.

"Ja, that's so."

"And why do you come bearing news that is old news then, so to speak?" He asked him. "You claim you know that I am involved – I admit that freely and willingly – but then what of it?"

Woah – big news. Not.

Klavier's got his own field of magpies, and they've been busy cackling away in between this morning and now. Yes, Kristoph is involved, and if he tries to deny it, then it's just going to reek of foolish stubbornness like a dirty man's laundry smelling all the way into the living room. No, what he wanted to know was a little different, and a little harder to find out through the windmill.

"I also heard something else."

"And that is? I hope to God this isn't your way of telling me you found a second guitar, Klavier," He attempted to joke off. Klavier's smile got wider, but he doesn't stop staring – he knows that unnerves his brother. The hand comes up again.

"Nein – of course not. What I heard on the street...Was a little more sordid – that is the English word, ja?" If Klavier leaned any more in front, he would be sitting on the desk on his elbows. "I heard that you did it to get your hands on a drug shipment – is that true?"

He said this with all matters of seriousness, but Kristoph's reaction was far from it. He threw back his head so hard it looked like it snapped on the spot, and he started laughing, chuckling wildly – like the idea of him ever fighting for a shipment like that was beyond laughable, beyond foolish.

When he finally recovered from his laughing fit – he was smiling at Klavier in such a condescending way he might as well go back to grade school. Klavier flushed a little, but pressed on.

"It's no laughing matter, Kristoph," He implored. "Those white stuff aren't good news, okay – it just isn't. I know you're going on an on about profits...But drugs are bad news, period."

Kristoph only smiled. "Is that so?"

Klavier gnashed his teeth, infuriated. "Ja, it is. And this once – it won't be just about the profits. You'll be introducing a whole breed of addicts into the city – something we can all do without, thank you very much."

"Ah-ah, but there is where you're wrong." Kristoph wagged his finger in his face. "You're going on and on about a drug shipment, but don't you think that's sort of presumptuous of you?"

Eyes narrowed in response. "Kristoph, if this is another one of your excuses..."

"No really think about it – I never once recalled I admitted to a drug shipment."

He growled. "You just said---"

"I said I had a hand in the fight. I never said anything about drugs. Don't you think you are speaking out of turn, Klavier? Presuming to know something that you have no factual basis on – that would have gotten you a penalty if this is court. I had a hand in the fight yes – but there weren't any drugs – at least none that I know of. Or can you prove it otherwise?" He challenged.

The glove, subtle as ever, is thrown down – and by the gloating look in Kristoph's eyes, Klavier knew he's lost. He had no evidence to point to it per se, and there is rarely ever such things. It's all hearsay, and he can't disprove something to his brother. When it came down to it then, things become very simple. Would he rather take his brother's word for it, a world-renown pathological liar, or his own instincts?

"There weren't any drugs?" He questioned him again.

"Wasn't that what I just said? – you're starting to sound like a parrot." He put a gentle hand to his lapel, putting on a mock-innocent look. "You know full well I would never do something like that. I might be hungry for profits, but even I draw the line somewhere you know. The drug scene carries a death penalty, no questions asked – don't you think I would be smarter than that?"

"I told Tin some...Less desirable things about Phoenix Wright – because the man had backstabbed me. As if his black debt with me isn't high enough, he had to add traitorous to the list – so I decided to punish him, is all."

Thing is, sometimes Klavier doesn't know if Kristoph is very smart or insane – not like there were many fine lines in between the two in the first place.

So take his word for it or not?

"You are telling the truth, ja? Because I don't think I can engrave it hard enough onto the wall – drugs are bad news."

"No coward will win the day," Kristoph commented mysteriously. When Klavier opened his mouth to argue back, he cut him off with a pleasant smile. "And yes – I am telling the truth, Klavier. There weren't any drugs – or at least none in my possession. Take that answer, or don't."

Take his word for it, aye-aye?

With a heavy sigh, Klavier leaned back on his chair, wiping his face clean of expression with a mental tissue and discarding it into the nearest imaginary bin. Take his brother's word for it, he supposed. There's nothing he can do about it – what, drill his brother on the spot with a 20-questions routine? He'd sooner be thrown out than get answers for it.

No, if he wanted answers,he'll have to look elsewhere, ask someone else. Not to mention Klavier really didn't think his brother would touch the white stuff. Kristoph's power crazy, but he wouldn't go that far – he's not crazy...Ja? To gamble everything like that is the work of a spiteful madman, not his brother – never his brother.

So reluctantly, he allowed the subject to drop into a deep, fifty-feet deep well. For now anyway. He's going to walk right out of here and find his own network to dig out the dirt on his brother.

"That is what you say, ja? I'll hold you to it, brother." He announced, getting up. Kristoph merely smiled another one of those little smiles that Klavier is really going to have to chalk up to his shit list if this continues on for much longer. Those smiles reek of insincerity, and even Klavier, a diva whose smile is as practised as a dance routine, cannot rival it. Runs in the blood he supposed – the ability to be insincere.

The smile melted off into a slightly more tender version of itself though, as Klavier stood up.

"Klavier?"

"What? You're not going to tell me you take that all back now are you?"

"No, just this : Stay out of this, Klavier. It's for you own good. This is between Wright and me : And the further you are from it, the better."

Klavier just gave him a look. That's not the way you tell people to get out of your life. You tell them with a big GTFO sign. You don't tell them looking the kindest you've ever been for months, because that just makes him want to stick around more to save his brother's hide from eventually getting singed. Looking at him beyond iron bars is not what Klavier wants, and if he's signed himself up to the role of an unwanted saviour, so be it.

"You're still not over that guy? What, squashing him down with your booted heel isn't enough for you?"

"Unfortunately," Kristoph retorted, "He's never been squashed at all – far from it. Even as we're speaking he's probably reorganizing his group into a more efficient version. Still undefeated. Still _victorious_."

Klavier shrugged, but didn't refute the point. Mud fight here, mud fight there. Nothing he can say will ever stop his brother from hating Phoenix Wright.

"Well do whatever you want, ja? But I'm here to stay – like it or not. Now," He tipped an imaginary hat. "Goodbye, brother – I'm off. Got an appointment with her majesty I need to keep."

Kristoph muttered something that could be just as soon 'goodbye' than 'fuck you', and then Klavier is out of the doors, no wiser than he had been when he went it at all. He wanted information, and got nothing. According to his brother, the drug shipment doesn't exist, which seems to contradict the buzz on the streets.

He could of course, wait, like a normal person, for the first effect of such a large amount of crack to hit the city. That, or he could go somewhere else and dig some information out. But Klavier's a persistent fellow – and he doesn't like being excluded out of things like this. If LeTouse knows, why shouldn't he? How come he's always the one left in the dark, when he does as much as any of Kristoph's cronies? Just because he's his brother he gets special treatment? Klavier doesn't like that shit.

When he walked out, he passed LeTouse, standing in the hallway and looking disinterestedly at a large portrait of a younger Klavier hanging on the walls.

"Hey there, LeTouse," He greeted as he walked by. "Still not going home yet? Thought you were leaving already?"

"Was, Mr. Gavinne. The portrait caught my attention is all."

"That so?"

'That so, Mr. Gavinne."

"Huh."

Klavier grunted. That portrait don't look too dishy to him. Why not stare at him instead? He's so much flashier. Ah well – Kristoph probably wants him around for more sneaky cloak-and-dagger consultation. He tipped the imaginary hat again, and off he went, whistling the tune to himself – he had a meeting with her majesty, as mentioned, and he wasn't looking forward to being late.

By the time he made it out of the building, he's almost forgotten that he didn't quite believe his brother when he said there ain't no drug shipment. Life's better in Grayscale sometimes, ya know? Beats the complexity of RGB.

* * *

"_Foolish fools doing foolish business! What foolery are you up to!?_"

The whip cracked somewhere in the distance, and even sixteen feet away and kneeling amongst wrecked boxes, Ema winced at the sound of the whiplash. Someone's not in a good mood today, scientific examination of the situation tells her so. She picked up another piece of wood, leftover from a broken board, and examined it closely. It stares back at her.

Nope, not very revealing. The whip cracked again, and Ema winced. She quickly removed a bottle of chemical – never mind what it happens to be – and started polishing the piece of wood religiously. When Miss vonKarma gets her knickers in a twist, you had better look industrious and the picture of hardworking, or you'll be punished appropriately. And because she's chief too – it's not like you can walk up to her and go 'Gee, gimme a break.'

She'll whip your salary into kingdom come.

VonKarma can be heard stomping down the road, shouting at the officers still lagging behind the main force of the group. Those are slackers, people with no motivation and no sense enough to save their own hides from literally getting whipped, and Ema couldn't say her heart bleeds for them. Better Franziska goes off and bark at them, and the rest of them here are left to their own devices.

The moment Franziska disappears off into the distance, boots making loud thwacking noises on the old-school brick road, the whole team relaxed. You can see it from the way their shoulders can actually roll again, instead of being stock-stiff and rigid like someone that's been lying in a ditch for seven hours straight. People relax more, and they went about filing up and down the narrow space in a leisurely pace.

The 'stage' for their 'gig' today – as a certain so-full-of-rubbish fop would put it – is the alleyway leading into a dead end on one side and a faceless road on the other. It has two ends – as most roads are wont to have – and one of them stopped dead in the face of an old bricked up road while the other leads away to a faceless intersection of more old roads and more mazes. Both sides of the road is tall, and if you have claustrophobia, this path is not a path for you.

One side stretches upwards to display tons of metal stairways criss-crossing each other in blatant defiance of the one-metre rule, and the other showcases a row of cheap and dirty bars, each one dirtier than the last, as Enid used to say. Granted, Enid was talking about fairies and castles and glittery sort of things – and if these bars were anything at all, they're no castle. Far from it – they made Luminol look like stardust.

"Skye."

Ema yawned, letting the chemical-blemished piece of wood fall to the ground. She turned around to face the person speaking to her – Valerie Hawthorne from down in CA, D.2

"What's it, Val?" She greeted, full of spunk. She hated that her voice sounded like a blonde chipmunk straight out of Hi5, but there's nothing to be lost for it. Ema's been taking psychology lessons when she's got the time, and textbook number five tells her that when the going is as gloomy as it is today – you had better be full of spunk or you'll be reaching for those caffeine bottles.

"We've chalked up another two crates at the back there."

"Woah, some more? How many were these guys dealing with? Were they planning a fireworks show or something?"

Valerie chuckled at the grim humour. She pointed at the storeroom under the stairway, where several of the police officers were attempting to remove the firearms. They were grunting left and right – and Ema guessed that they must be pretty heavy, since all of them were guys with tons of muscles and aren't afraid to use them, from the amount of complains that they get from the street crew.

"There's another two there. And I think Marshall was whooping about loot from up there."

Ema looked in the direction of the stairway itself. It's made out of wooden planks, and the whole place looks like something out of an old west shows – those kind that nobody ever watches any more because they don't want to be reminded that humans were once sad enough to live in the middle of a desert strip. It's sure Marshall's kind of place, and a whoop up from the second floor confirmed it.

"Amigo! We got ourselves a-a-" Jake's voice trailed off into Spanish gibberish. Ema shook her head and laughed – that's Jake for you. Spanish gibberish is to Jake what 'hoo-ray' is to a normal person, and she turned back to Valerie and sighed. Once the laughter dries up, it's quick to reveal what kind of dust bunny is lying underneath it.

"That's gonna be a whole lot of stuff for us to analyze once we get back to the precinct. Just the gunpowder itself's got to take up hours – did you know that now they even want gunpowder report?"

"I thought you liked this kind of scientific stuff," Valerie returned. The crew removed the two crates from the store and placed it in the middle of the room, beside each other.

They can't open it now – gotta wait until someone better with firearms pop by from CA to take a look at it. You never know the condition of these things, and one wrong move might mean everyone blowing up like popcorns in a popcorn machine. Rat-a-tat-tat, and then you're gone going gone, lower than even popcorn because hey! Popcorn gives people diabetes. You give your wife and kids crap insurance.

"I do," Ema said. "Just not five whole hours of it examining residue and gunpowder quality. I mean, why can't they assign Gangs and Narcotics onto this thing? They sure as hell identify things faster than we do."

"Maybe, but half of them are into gangs and narcotics themselves – and I don't mean the division."

Ema laughed. Yeah, it's a long-running joke in the PD. People who run in G&N tend to be the same on the flipside too. Something about smelling gunpowder all day long must have atrophied their oversized baboon brains – or maybe it's the temptation of the thing. With so many chances to sweep a sack of guns off and make it rich, why won't you be tempted? Just think of those fast cars, those lovely ladies, and testosterone will do it's job.

Upstairs, Jake finished marvelling over the guns he found, and his feet were soon climbing down the stairs. They're heavier than normal, since in his arms were another smaller box of the same material as the crates – containing a few of what looked to Ema like guns. She's no expert on them, but if size = power, then those are probably pretty kick-ass ones.

She sniffed at them. "Any more up there?"

"Negativa," Jake announced depositing the box on a nearby table. A cloud of dust kicks up, and Ema waved irritably at it. "I don't think there are any more up there, but I dunno – that's gotta wait until the Cough-up Queen drill it outta the boys."

He dusted his hands and sighed. "Ah, can't wait to get back to the precinct and see Marylin again."

"Marylin, is it?" Valerie snickered. "Is that a new one, Marshall?"

"Oh yes, Marylin, my girl – now I can sing her praises all day long..."

"That's his cactus," Ema said laughingly, cutting him off. "It's the smaller one I think – sister to Billy and Bogey."

"You mean those things sitting in a corner of his--"

"Room, yeah."

"Oh gee, Marshall..."

"What? They're pretty bambinas..."

Footsteps could be heard from outside – the clipped tones unmistakeable.

"Quiet!" Ema jabbed both elbows into their sides. The both of them shut up as Franziska vonKarma walked in, but because Ema had been in such a hurry to jab the both of them – she ended up looking like a startled chicken when vonKarma eyed her disdainfully, both arms protruding sideways and feeling a warm flush working up her face. All the officers' eyes were on her.

"What are you doing, Skye – you fool? Imitating a chicken now? Is that one of your newfangled scientific foolery?"

Ema coughed, standing to attention immediately. Franziska sniffed once at her, then finding nothing to criticize in her (Ema had taken great pains to wear standard issue uniform for lab workers before heading out) she turned to the crew manning the two crates. They quivered like arrows left stuck on trees and exposed to the wind.

"Well! Where are the new evidence?" She demanded. Ema would have looked pointedly at the crates and went 'Gee, you mean you can't see?'. Except this is Franziska we're talking about, yes? The lady in question walked over to the box and rapped it with the handle of her whip, answering her own question.

"Where were these found?" She asked them. One of them – a meek looking sort of fellow – shuffled awkwardly and pointed at the stairway.

"I said! Where did you find it?" vonKarma shouted again.

"At the stairway, ma'am! We found it there!" He yelled into his loudspeaker.

Ema winced at the sharp whine of the loudspeaker – but that was apparently what vonKarma wanted, because she nodded approvingly at the crates. "The stairway? The storeroom there?"

'Yes ma'am!"

"Excellent – now what's in these things?" This one isn't answered – neither by that officer or the rest of them, and Franziska swirled around to glare at all of them. "What's with the sudden silence? I asked – or did you not hear me, you foolish fools? What's in here – has anyone done an inventory check of everything we've found?"

Her gaze whirls around, like the eye of doom, and fell on Ema. Well, why wouldn't it fall on her? She had just taken over as Forensic's newest second-in-command after all, and if she doesn't have the answer, who would? Clearing her throat, Ema stepped forward, aware that she looked awkward in the dusty bar with her pristine white coat and trying to look like she fit into the background.

"Miss vonKarma, we won't be able to process the crates until we get someone from Hazard to look at it. It might turn out to be like the one down in the Wilshire area – a trigger bomb set for the cops."

"What? What is the meaning of that foolishness? You're forensics are you not? Why can't you just crack the thing apart?"

_Um, because we don't get hazard pay?_

"That's impossible, Miss vonKarma," She repeated, well-aware that she's starting to sound like a parrot. "We can't open it without someone who's good with bombs, or at least someone good with firearms. Those things are tacked firmly, and from the layer of dust on it – it hasn't been moved for a very very long time. The gunpowder might ignite upon exposure, if it's you know...A keg." She finished lamely.

Actually, that didn't make sense – at all. But it wasn't like vonKarma's an expert with scientific thingamajigs, so she only turned to demand of Marshall.

"Well then – where are the fools who are responsible for this? The last time I checked I thought we had bomb experts in our precinct – what in the name of damnation happened to them?"

"Eh-Eh, you could say they've kicked up their heels and gone where the wind finds them easy." Jake answered, offering an apologetic half-smile. "We got one man down with a broken arm or 'umthing, and then Acro and Bat's moosey over to join the circus – said it earns them more gold – arranging fireworks and such such."

'So what you're basically telling me, Marshall." She growled. "Is that you allegedly handle the Patrol crew, and somehow now it lacks all three of our bomb experts?"

"Uh, aye – that be what I'm saying."

Uh-oh. Stroke time. Ema took a step backwards from the circle-of-explosion, or as her MMORPG-mates would put it, the AOE. Once Franziska gets that look, you just know everything within her AOE is gonna get whipped-happy, and only dumb ones like ol' Shoe is gonna stand within firing distance.

A finger jabbed in their directions. "You all – are the reason why the PD's arrest record is nothing but pure foolery this past year, you know that? I've never seen worse statistic from COMPSTAT, and this year – when we've finally managed to get our act together and weed out these lowlifes, you all come up with this sort of- this sort of foolish performance! Exactly what do you hope to get for your next pay review? Nuts and bottle caps?"

She demanded the last one at Valerie, and Valerie, Valerie, always the one with guts of steel and the headlong rushing into things that obviously look bad – she stepped forth.

"With all due respect, Miss vonKarma – we're all a little tired. The number of arrests we've been making, if you'll excuse us – is _abnormal._ It's just one case after another, and we're to be honest, many men down."

"Yeah," Ema chimed in, ignoring the dirty look vonKarma shot her. " I mean, it's really great that we're getting such accurate tip-offs, but you're working us too hard. At the rate you're going, next year we won't have statistics at all : We'll have flushed everything out this year, gangs and all."

"And that is a bad thing because...?"

"I get it that we're great, hot off the stove and boiling hot – but at the rate you're going, amiga, we're going to be like lone rangers. Everyone's gonna be a casualty."

"Don't be foolish! You know what senator vonKarma – that is to say, my father – mentioned in his policy. No crime! A vonKarma must have a perfect city, and a perfect city cannot have a rubbish crime record – am I understood?"

The group of officers muttered sullenly under their breaths in the affirmative. Yeah, they get it. Work and work. No hazard pay. No pay. Ramen all day long – yeah, they get it alright. They don't know who's been supplying vonKarma with all these tip-offs, but a pox on the guy's head – that guy is working far too efficiently for their peace of mind.

It's been one bust after another, and even though yeah, Ema agreed – these things gave them a rush, make them excited, but by the end of the day they're just haggard and tired and just want to go home and sink into a bubble bath.

They just can't seem to see a _pattern _to the arrests.

Miss vonKarma gave out the orders that the crates be moved back into the precinct – and she doesn't care what Jake does, either he produces some experts by tomorrow, or die by the whip. Since their resident ones were either injured (Stupid fop have stupid band mates too. I mean, a broken arm? What the hell did he do, skate at the park?) or quitted – so Jake will have to hire extras.

Oh so yeah, let's chalk it up. Write some ads for it, recruit them, train them, and by tomorrow, turn them towards a box that might or might not blow up in their face. We're getting real hip and happening there, Miss vonKarma.

The officers were saved the hassle of having to move it under vonKarma's hawk eye though, because just when they were all hooking the thing carefully down the room, a teetering amount of lunchboxes materialized at the doorway.

The officers froze, looking up at the lady most of them have come to dubbed as their saviour. Saves them from having to work to death for vonKarma all the time, ya'see. Franziska glared at them when they stopped – before realizing that their gazes trailed off behind her.

"You!" Franziska hissed, the moment she saw the lady they were looking at. "What are you doing here!?"

"Cough-up!" One of the officers cheered, exuberance unchecked. Franziska shot him an ugly look – before turning back to the detective.

It's no secret that there's enough bad blood between the two of them that you can summon Satan if you turn them both upside down and chant their names. Both of them had been fighting over who gets to be chief of police – and now that one's the chief and the other's the Deputy Chief – guess what happens?

Ema doesn't need to tell you, does she? What happens on the sun's surface? Yeap. Sizzle sparkle sparkle.

"Oh, why can't I be here? I just stopped by to deposit some lunch boxes for your men is all – whom mind you, I'm sure you hadn't feed." Angel turned a baleful eye at the all of them, giving her a superior look as if to say : _Look! Look how malnourished they are!_

"Cough-up!" Another cheered again. The whip cracked.

"I thought you have your own division – I specifically remember giving it to you – so why are you still in my hair?"

"I did, but I have news—DO NOT--" She hissed, dodging a whiplash. "Whip me, vonKarma, or I'll salt your lunches like pickles. I happen to be here specifically with news that came in from San Diego."

That stayed Franziska's hand. It froze in motion above her head as she stared at Starr. "What news? More of the gang--?"

Ema wanted to smash her head against the wall. Not again!? Another tip off to another exchange? How long do they have to work? Ema isn't averse to working, but even she's a little tired of all these car chases. Running about after thugs simply isn't her ideal way of spending nights – even though she's not part of the main PD force. She wouldn't even want to be in their shoes, thank you very much.

Starr tossed her head though, and entering the room, handed all the lunch boxes to the officers. They received them gladly, and she turned back to an impatient vonKarma with a triumphant look.

"Is it another tip-off?" Franziska asked impatiently. The officers let out a low moan, like a choir team in a horror movie. Starr shook her head though.

"It's not another one of those. A call came in from Hammond earlier, while you were out playing cat-and mice with your men."

"Hammond? The San Diego chief?"

"That's right."

"What does he want?" Franziska snapped. "If it's another one of those men-loan again, tell him to be gone – we haven't so much men we can lend it to him every time he's got a job he's afraid of spending men on."

"That's not it," Came the reply. "They got some news for us." She paused for effect, before continuing. "That man that you told them to watch out for – he's been spotted, and word has it that he's coming here to L.A."

Ema's head was spinning – she had no idea half the things being exchanged to and fro, much less who this guy they were talking about is. But it must be someone she recognized though – because Franziska's eyes sparkled with a cat-like gleam the moment the man's mentioned.

"...Him? It's really him – they haven't made a foolish mistake?"

"My information is like my lunch – there's no mistake about it." And a box of lunch would have been opened to be approved of too – except vonKarma had started gripping her whip handle like she wanted to break it into a million pieces. Ema had no idea how to read that face, and not all the scientific psychology books can tell her otherwise. It looked like someone who's so excited she wants to jump for joy, or so enraged she wants to burst into tears. You know, what she calls an Unidentified Fingerprint Face. Frustrated.

"Where is he now?" She asked Angel. "Where's that fool?"

"He's heading over – but they lost track of him when he got to the city border. So he's either on the SD Fwy, or already here."

"Perfect!" Franziska growled triumphantly – if such a thing is possible. She's gnashing her teeth, but she looked like someone's who's just found a rat in her trap. "Perfect – exactly what I need!" She turned to the officers, marvelling at their lunchboxes, and nearly made them dropped them all in fright.

"You all!"

"Y-Yes, Miss vonKarma?"

"Carry on without me here – I have some business to attend to!"

They nodded quickly – quick enough to please her and slow enough to mask the fact that one and all they wanted to jump and throw their hats up, so to speak – and she nodded back. Then with another authoritative sweep of her whip, just to prove she can, she was out of the building, leaving them in it's dusty interior. The cough-up queen winked at them, then sweeping her fringe off, she was gone too, marching off after Franziska like two hot ladies out of Playboy, except with a hell-lot more of a scary attitude.

When they were gone, Ema asked Valerie. "Who were they talking about?"

"I don't know – but to quote my dear sister when she's in a temper, I think it's safe to say he's 'one big piece of shit'."


	10. IX : THIS BEAST IS SEXY

Mmm. I'm starting to see parallel lines of this with Sky, ack. Oh well. I planned this to epic anyway, and as you can see, things aren't working out. It's just not...Big enough, for some reason. Doesn't feel grand and massive enough. Hmm...

Btw, having exams. Sorry for the long overdue update. :x

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_Nine : THIS BEAST IS SEXY  
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Like any scientist would tell you – the velocity of a stationary object is zero.

The 1-5 N is, according to google – is exactly 119 miles long, subject to change depending on what kind of eyes you have, and what kind of measuring tapes you had used to line the length of it. It takes a total of 2 hours to cross by car and 2 hours 50 minutes in traffic, also subject to change depending on weather.

At zero miles traversed though – the weather was Nancy-fine – and the bike's parked beside a gas out at the sides of San Diego, where civilization is slowly retreating in the face of deserts and harsh sand. This is where the house ends, the city ends, and the gas stations start to mushroom one by one on the road. It's almost uniform in it's placement – one every time you're just about out of gas and desperate for more, and if the man who's driving the bike knows lesser, he would call it a conspiracy.

At twelve in the afternoon, the bike kick starts with a roar and a choke of the most mechanical sort. It's been traversing a long time, ya see, and it ain't so happy to be dragged another hundred miles without an autoshop to wank some steam off. It kicked start anyway , and at twelve in the afternoon, two days after the cardboard boxes exchanged hands, the man is rolling down 1-5 N like fury incarnate.

Wheels scorched the ground, and they move fast because if they move slow, the whole damned thing will overheat. It rolled, first at the speed of 10 an hour, then breaking into 20 an hour – and as the station disappeared behind the horizon with a deflating pop of moneysucking tentacles being pulled off, it sped up all the way until the meter pointed to 50 instead of 0. The bitch roared and whined at being kicked up into that kind of speed, and if the road had been more populated, doubtless the man would have crash into something and ended up in a ditch with his neck broken.

The roads were clean though – at 12 in the afternoon with the sun showing it's muscles, no one wants to travel. There's a whole backlog of people stuck in the station and the one bed and breakfast down the road, hoping for the sun to show some mercy – and the road is clear for the man to step on it and blow pass the signs. The signs all show him the same thing : 70, but they could have been showing him BIG PISS for all he cared – signs were for faggots and not big shits like him.

16 miles down the road, the bike starts showing him things. No, it ain't things in his mind – the sun's hot enough to burn the top of his head off, even through the helmet. It's like a slow simmer with a regurgitating heater, but it wasn't enough to cloud his brains with hallucinations. The side-view mirror he stuck onto his bike with tape and cello weren't the best shiny sticks on Earth, but they do their job – and both of them agreed, someone was tailing them.

"Huh," He grunted.

From behind came the guys – and the man wasn't sure if they were Hammond's harpoons or the road's hammers. It could be Hammond, sending down his boys from S.D to take the shark down before he can speeda-speeda all the way to L.A and escape his net. Hammond doesn't give flying piss if the man's caught or not, or for the matter, if he's guilty of half the things being said about him. All he cares about is that the next time his boss comes around, he'll be serving them shark fins of the most metaphorical kind.

Those men were on bikes of their own, pretty badass ones that always did look too heavy to him. They look like they could be lugging cargo down in the ports, and ain't in the business of chasing people down. Appearances lie though – and two of the white bikes caught up to him at 25 miles. The man threw his head back and laughed loudly at them, like they were his beer and peanut buddies he happened to meet on the deserted highway to nowhere.

"Hey you boys! You guys down from the Ham?"

His voice is nearly drowned out by the sound of the wind rushing in his face. He hadn't bothered with anything to cover his face with, and even at 50, there were occasional sands and grit and what not that flew at him. The men chasing him didn't respond to his remark, only dogging him side by side persistently. Dancers to their sugar parade.

Their silence told them what he needed to know : If they had been your usual speed polices, they would be shouting out his rights over the wind by now, along with miserable pleadings for him to SIR JUST GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD SO WE CAN SUMMONS YOU PLEASE and then he'll pay them some money and they'll all go home to their wives and kids. These men weren't different in looks – but they were different in demeanour – only staring back at him with those scary kind of stone-face you see in MIB or movies where the aliens come outta the man's stomach, instead of you know, more appropriate places.

A tiny fist pounded in the man's back, and it told him all he needed to know. He turned his head around enough to stare at the kid behind him.

"'sup?"

"Mr. Hammond!" The kid roared back. His own voice sounded louder even than the man's since he was shielded by him. That's something he's gotta rectify later – maybe have a shouting match with the kid just to prove that baby? He's got the louder voice. The kid doesn't look amused though, only slamming his fist into his back.

"Go! Quicker!"

"Wrong term!" He shouted back. "It's callled...BURN!"

With a loud whoop, he twisted both accelerators. If it had been sponge, it would have broken off at first contact alone. It's a well-connected piece of sponge though, and the bike lurch into motion with another one of those mechanical chokes.

Now the man's bike ain't the finest piece of shit on Earth, but as he would put it – it's a damned fine piece of shit either way. It's blue, it's black – and if those colours aren't cool enough for your dining's pleasure, then fuck, they're proof of how much they've been through eh? The thing's nothing special – and in a ram-a-bam-bam fight with one of those state-issued white things, there'll be nothing left of it but the handlebars to prove it exist – but because it's lighter than the state issues, it went faster too.

His bike cut across theirs, whom had been hovering in indecision slightly ahead of his. These weren't well-trained pooches, that's for sure. The man's seen better poochies than these, though those were usually available only exclusively in the L.A district. These guy don't even have any idea what they're doing – and he caught the both of them by surprise, slashing past both of them at top speed and leaving them in a cloud of dust.

This is when the man would like to tell you that it's the end, that they had crash against each other or did something equally stupid – except they hadn't. He took the lead in their show, running ahead – but before long, another fist pounded on his back, and he knew what that meant without even looking backwards.

From the corner of his dust-filled eye (No time to blink there) he can see the two of them closing in – still without a clear idea of what to but still persistent anyway. What had they expected to do anyway, ask quietly if he would surrender and let them take him back to Hammond? No thank you – that's not the way he runs, and if they think so, then they're delusional – ain't no untrained little bitch is going to take him down easily. The kid's voice was shrill as he shouted across the sound of the wind.

"Coming...Close!"

"Yeah? So?" In a quieter voice, he told him. "Take my gun out, we might have to solve these guys the old fashioned way."

"Are...Stupid! Dead people are attention!"

"Hello, have you forgotten – we're thugs? We don't give a f-damn!"

Growling, the kid loosened his sawed-off shotgun, extracting it out of it's holster on his lap, hidden under a makeshift leather bag. When they hit town, it goes into the bag, but you never know when you need it – and they probably would now.

It left a bad taste in the man's mouth – he does a lot of things for a lot of people, and most things he aren't proud of, and most things he's not going to tell even if you eat his heart out. But this is a dog eat dog world, and people whom are your comrades today, are your enemies tomorrow. People whom are alive now, in the next second they might be dead – and if you don't shoot first, then you shoot second and people who shoot the slow bullet always end up biting it themselves – literally.

Man of many things, but suicidal ain't one of it.

The kid took out the gun and placed the heavy thing between them, unlocking the safety. It it blows now, the man thought grimly – that'll be the end of his sweet ass. In order for the kid to shoot the thing properly – if such a need arise – they'll have to go slower though, and the man skidded their bike onto the desert that branched out of the main road itself.

Some people call this a beach, but he called it well, more like a desert. It's like one of those things they keep advertising on visit-Australia campaigns by dimwits. COME VISIT AUSTRALIA, WE HAVE NICE THEATERS AND TWIGS IN OUR DESERT. I mean, come on man – logic. Why would anyone go? The desert here's exactly like those – granted not as hot as those near Vegas, but they burn nonetheless, and you can feel the heat coming up in waves when you drive onto it. Slow Japanese sand steaming, babe – and the heat's probably going to work, judging by how he's rapidly approaching mental babbling.

The sand and heat slowed down the bikes considerably, as rubber expanded to the point of bursting and the sand provide all the friction they needed to slow the thing down. It wasn't just their bike slowing either – the two state-issues slowed down as well, though because the lead had decrease it's speed or because the terrain is so bumpy that one wrong move will send you flying – no one would know. Both bikes closed in again, determined to clip them in between their bikes, and one of the cop shouted out, livid.

"STOP! You know you can't run forever – we've got the orders against you--"

The other wasn't about to be outdone either. "If you do not cease and desist, we will, under the laws of the Californian..."

The man rolled his eyes. Where did these guys learn their vocabulary from, Big Momma's House? Christ on wheels.

"Sorry, but if you want a speeding shark, you'll need to catch it first!"

The kid dug his elbow into his sides, the unspoken message being shut the hell up please, you big embarrassment. His other arm was already up and levelling the sawed-off at one of the cops. The cop hesitated, but didn't stop, only yelling out warnings faster than ever. He probably thought the kid couldn't shoot it – well, newsflash, kid shoots – kid scores too.

This he prove a moment later, when they rolled pass a rocky terrain and he hissed at the driver. "Not hit!" He shouted, gesturing wildly with one hand while trying to hold the gun in place. The driver could see that it wasn't going to hit too – not with the terrain like this, all bumpy and only slightly less wild than he himself. But that was what he wanted – it wasn't like he wanted them dead or something, just to get them off his ass and stopped fucking him around. It's not personal, you git? He gets it – totally does – it's their job, they're just doing it.

But he's got a job too, and they're in the way of it – and when there's an obstacle, you move it out of your way, simple as that.

"It's 'right!" He shouted back. This time his voice came out as dry croak, and he needed to clear his throat and wet it with drying saliva before he could be heard. "It's alright!" He tried again, and this time his voice worked. "Just delay them, we don't have to kill them!"

The kid might have nodded, but the kid might have not – but the man's got better things to worry about.

The cop with the gun in his face is lagging behind their bike, clearly hesitant at giving chase to people who don't seem to think twice about shooting you in the head. The other had no such compunctions though, and rushed ahead of them, seemingly hellbent on setting his own bike in the middle of the road or something and put literal meaning to 'over my dead body'. Maybe it's a gut reflex sort of thing – when you want something to stop, you stop it yourself, and whenever they swerved right, the cop swerved with them too.

They're like a DNA structure, weaving in and out of each other in a double helix structure. They'll make fucking good James Bond material, that much the driver got – and it seems like a nice big show with God as director, the way their bikes HADN'T ram into each other. Then the cop made a violent swipe at his head with some kind of – IS THAT A NIGHT STICK? - baton or some sort, and he ducked just in time. If it had collided with the back of his head, they would have crash – and the cop would have crash with him, but apparently such logic have temporarily deserted them – taken over by the prey-and-predator instincts.

Behind him, the kid levelled the gun at the other cop. His trigger arm is stiff, like the hands of a dead man. His other one was under the barrel of the gun itself, trying to support it properly, like a person would a rifle and to get a better aim. He had twisted himself to the point where he was almost sitting backwards, but still he couldn't get a good aim. He doesn't want to kill the man either – he could, but killing is not what he does for fun. Just because you can shit, doesn't mean you spend all day shitting right? Logic.

The cop seemed emboldened by the fact that his hands shook like a rattlesnake's head – do rattlesnakes rattle? Must remember to ask – and his face could be seen setting into grim determination, even behind a layer of the helmet's plastic. The cop pressed down hard on his accelerator, dropping his upper body into a lower centre of gravity and sped forward. He must have wanted to join his colleague in taking swipes at the driver's head and knocking him off the thing – but he hadn't gotten his wish, because the moment he pulled up parallel to them, the kid let the shot loose.

One shot, two shots – and his shoulders scream in protest. They felt like some very big man had reached down and twisted it all the way backwards to the point where they start making these creaky noises that you know means that your tendons are protesting. The shotgun isn't made for him, reduced impact or no, but his own gun wouldn't make a dent in a fly, much less stop a moving vehicle. The guy's shotgun does though – or maybe it wasn't so much the shotgun as the impact diverging the cop's own momentum.

The guy's bike caught, or maybe it was pushed aside, but it lost it's balance, and skidded out of control and slanted off the way bikes like to go in racing tracks. You know how they slant all the way until it looks as if the motorcyclist is kissing the ground in prayer? Yes, exactly like that – going off in a 75 degree angle and ending with a loud crash that means either it's exploding, or it's gone and do some rolls, like sushi, only better.

The crash that filled the kid's ears weren't of the cop rolling, eastern delicacy or not though. It was of their own bike, and he had to bit his nails down hard into the leather of the cushion, or he would have been knocked right out of the thing. It wasn't like he was a prizewinner – and he clung to the gun for dear life. The barrel's pointing upwards at his face, and one wrong finger in the wrong spot and he would have blown his own face off. That thought flew across his head and missed contact though, and he cradled it like it was his favourite teddy bear and that it's not gunpowder he's smelling.

The driver swore as they hit a particularly rough patch. He swerved aside to miss one of those absolutely FUGLY desert ferns, and dived again like a champion at Paso Doble when the cop rushed at them. This guy must be out of his mind, the man thought – to run at him like that.

Why are they so desperate to get them anyway? Or is Hammond still sore about Redd White? Whatever, fucking bastard deserved what he got – and if Hammond gets one less bribe, what did it matter to him?

"Do I shoot?" The kid demanded of him, even though his nails were scratching the gun like horror movies and blackboards. The man shook his head though – kiddo finished one, now it's time for him to show what he can do too! He's not losing to some chipmunk, right?

He slowed the bike some more, to the point where all the swerving became dangerous because of their speed. The bikes were too heavy for this slow a speed, and violent motions left and right made it harder to balance than it would have been at high speed.

It might not make sense in a logical way, but think about it – the momentum of a fast vehicle would keep it in line. A slow one would be harder to control. The cop slowed along with them – just as he planned – and all that swiping became more frequent. The man looks really determined to do his head in, doesn't he?

"When I say go – jump from this thing." He ordered. The kid could have pierced the back of his head with his death glare.

"No want head?"

"Eh-heh-heh. Why not think of it as temporary insanity?"

The bike regurgitated under them, bucking like a wild horse. The thing wouldn't last much longer, not in it's current state. The kid clawed at his back. "Don't be...Stupid!"

'NOW!"

And then the guy did the craziest thing he's done in all of oh, 24 hours, discounting the chilli tacos.

The cop swung at him again with the thing, teeth now gnashing in frustration. He reached up, and forcefully jammed all five off his fingers around the thing and pulled. It hurt like assholes and bullshits and Thai food at full power, and he's pretty sure that at least his skin's gonnaa come off, but he did it anyway.

He loosened his other hand from the handlebar – practically having to pry it off, and clamped it around the man's upper arm. With one twisted around the nightstick and another one around his upper arm, he yanked the cop over.

The kid obeyed his instruction, jumping off the thing the moment he shouted, and that left him more space to manoeuvre. Their bike is overheating by now, and it, as he had mentioned, won't last much longer.

The cop joined him on their bike, landing like an ungraceful sack of potatoes. The man can barely stop, and nearly flew over the edge to bite the dust – but he clamped the man down firmly with both hands, pressing him like a compressive pillow. This is the kind of thing that makes people wonder – is that even possible? Oh, who gives a fucking care?

Who told Bell to fuck off when he made the magical lines?

The cop's bike, without someone to steer it, crashes off into yet another one of those ugly ferns protruding out of the ground like tumours. The man grinned savagely at the sight of the thing stopping a dozen feet away – that means they'll have alternative transport yet.

Now what to do with the man in front of him, almost blocking his access to the handlebars with his not inconsiderable grid? Well boy, does he have an answer for reached down, and unhooked a fresh pair of handcuffs.

"Guess what honey?" He asked him conversationally, hooking one end of it around the man's arms, and the other one around one end of the handlebars. He slapped the man playfully on the head. "Fifty bucks say you're gonna die."

Then he pushed himself off. He would have gone the most dramatic way, maybe lifting himself up with one hand and jumping backwards ala Matrix style – except that would break his back. So instead, he covered his head like a cowering coward and dived off the bike like a man off a diving board. He would like to say he flew across like Catwoman too, all grace an all, and landed on both feet. Except he hadn't either, and dropped off a couple of feet away, looking like something someone stirred out of yesterday's coleslaw.

The cop, he goes on – and the bike speeds off without anyone steering it. To give the man credit for his intelligence, he lifted his free hand in a gibbering attempt to steady the bike – and it probably saved his life too, because instead of crashing like a wild mare, the bike broke off into a shattered halt, going in a semi-circle before finally collapsing on itself and crushing half of the man under it.

The guy who had just launched himself off the springboard wasn't in any mood to admire that intelligence though.

He rolled off at least a dozen feet away, getting sand everywhere – once again, not because James Bond does it, but because the force threw him forwards and he ended up rolling like some fat man's cigar against his will. He ended up another half dozen feet away, finally paying momentum's dues and lay there, staring up at scorching San Diego – L.A sun.

1-5N. very exciting shit.

He stayed there too, letting adrenaline pump through both ears. This is what he signed up for. Excitement – lots and lots of excitement. It's fun, ain't it? Chasing cars around like these?

He stayed for a long long time, before the sun disappears and he thought that maybe you know, God have mercy. Instead, it was the kid, looking down at him with smiling eyes.

"Is head...Glued?"

He grinned up at him, slapping his own head lightly. "You think? I've got my head, AND the brains to go with it."

The kid lend him a hand, and reaching for it, he pulled himself upwards. He surveyed the carnage that's the two cops – and grinned self-righteously. Told them they gotta have some skills to catch them. You think they got onto the wanted list playing poker in dingy clubs? Come on – get real, folks. If you want to catch them and get yourselves a promotion, you do it by scouring small fishes, not aiming for the biggest sharks around here, appearances or otherwise. They probably weren't dead, but it still merited this question anyway :

"What...Do them?"

"What to do with them?"

'Yeah."

He shrugged. "Dunno. Call the cops, I s'pose. Can't leave them here or they'll be heat stroked."

"So kind," The kid said sarcastically. He took it like a man.

"Yeah, I know I am. Say, you got a mirror?"

"If incline...You can...Look in own puddle."

"Piss? Out here? It'll dry up before I check my reflection, thanks."

He climbed up, and dusted himself off. He's a wreck, through and through. Jacket? Crumpled. Shirt? Stained. Pants? FUCKING TORN. One silver lining in the clouds though, because his hairdo is still miraculously a-fine. Sleeking a hand over the legendary pompadour.

It's still there, and if it's there, it means the owner, Daryan Crescend, is there too.

"This beast," He jerked a thumb at himself, grinning wildly. "Is _SEXY_."

There's Daryan Crescend, bitch – and you better write that on your face if you don't trust your head. He's here, and he's here to stay - and if you don't like it buddy, take this cliff. Jump off it.

He smoothed his hand over his hair one last time, before tipping a coin at Machi Tobaye, still smiling at him like he's a wax figure with the head displaced. "I told you we're gonna run into trouble before we get to L.A. Now you gotta gimme fifty of those."

"It was...Five, Mr. Crescend,' Machi reminded him with a look. Daryan grinned sheepishly, caught trying to swindle the kid. Machi cleared his throat, and pointed at the remaining bike of the cop.

"Now...We go? We have...Appointment with Mr. Wright."

* * *

By the time they got to L.A, it was already the next day. It really wasn't the journey itself that took so long – like google had said, it was only supposed to be a two or three hour journey.

Between the both of them though, they managed to squander away their time. They were stopped by highway patrols all the time, because after all, they looked like refugees from prison or torture camp after their little tussle with Hammond's dogs. It didn't end there either – a couple of those could be seen drifting on and off the road, and well – Daryan's amazing and all, but he's not superman. He can't fight all day long and expect himself to leave in one piece.

So instead, they started going at snail pace, dodging here, slowing down there. Sometimes they check into bed and breakfasts, and choose the smallest, tiniest room. Once, they even had to hide behind the bike they stole from the cop like common morons when a cop sped by. Machi was irritable all trip long, annoyed that the police were dogging their every steps. It's no wonder that they chose to do it – Hammond had made it extremely clear that the two of them are, so to put it – wanted men.

Taking out a big asshole, especially one who had been faithfully paying Hammond his bribes, tend to do that to your reputation.

Daryan unwraps his hot dog, bought from some streetside vendor, and started chewing on it thoughtfully. It's evening now, and the street lamps always look the most forlorn at these time. Like instead of being part of the street, they look like individual loners who had been left to stand. Like those soldiers you see in one straight line, vital, but when it came down to it – so taken for granted that they might as well blend into the scenery.

Crossing the city border had been a pain too.

Chief vonKarma (Now isn't that a surprise? The little feline's promoted herself to chief since the last time he saw her) had the borders reinforced like the line between Mexico and America. Trucks were backlogged to check what they're carrying into the city, and maybe this is a great sign of humanity – maybe Daryan should write songs about this and sing it. Maybe this proves that this is what humanity's come to, that we have to line our city borders like territorial tribes.

Beside him, Machi chewed his own hot dog thoughtfully too. The kid's thoughts were probably different than his though, maybe he's thinking of home, and the art dealing grandfather who hadn't wanted him enough to pay Daryan's ransom for him. Or maybe he's thinking of his life, and how not fun it is following Daryan around as muscle men for hire. Black mail, kidnapping, murder, arson? They're your men – dial this number to burn your butcher down, now!

Two ladies walked pass them, turning their noses up at Daryan, disdain practically oozing out of their noses like booger tanks. Their thoughts are painted on their faces like their make up, and you don't need a psychology cert to tell people what they're thinking.

_What a disgrace that guy is. Not that bad looking, but look what's he's doing with his life – dirty, messy and unwashed. For shame! _Those are the guys mommy warned them not to marry, 'less all they got to show for it is the cheap knock-off ring on their middle finger.

Daryan dumped the wrapper for the hot dog on the ground, the nasty chemicals already coming out in the short time it's wrapped around the food. Yeah yeah, whatever. He gets it. They wouldn't think that of him if he's in a suit – but he isn't, and who's got time for suits anyway? Daryan's much cooler.

But right, right. Where was he? Don't let him sidetrack himself now. Oh yeah, the city.

It didn't used to be like this. He heard that back, oh, around ten years ago – things used to be safe and sane. Gangs were gangs back then, and cracked people are cracked people. People got overdosed, and people don't really give rat shits. So people want to screw their lives around – it's kind of like the ladies that had walked pass, ain't they? They care when they see, but once they walk out of sight, it's Big Apple and Donuts they're thinking about, not overdosed people.

Then policies change. Time's a-changing – humanity's on the rise to become a more civilized breed, and in order to move forward, we gotta cut out things that's not needed any more – things like crime and crack that's got no place in new society, good society. So they set up a border around cities, screen everything that goes by, enforce the crime like it's the new Jesus, and guess what? Crime's still around. Gangs still around. They've just gone more subtle is all, less burning and racketeering and more like serious upstart businessmen – but still there, and those are the kind of guys Daryan works for, so he should know.

Life's a-changing alright, and it's not always for the better.

"Snap out of it, Daryan, you're getting all philosophical and shit." He said aloud. Machi raised his small blonde head up to look at him, before returning to his food disinterestedly. Machi isn't interested in many things – the boy's got his own troubles that he's not keen to take on many of other people's problems too. He's in that stage y'know, where people try to find their places in the world, try to raise their head above the sardine crowd and bellow. _Look at me. Won't you look at me? I'm not like these guys – I'm special, I got me a place in the world and I plan to find it._

Daryan had found Machi back in Pennsylvania, or Penisvania, as the kids where Daryan had grown up used to call it. Very exciting place, where things move like a 1940's car. Daryan and a bunch of no-goods - people destined for the high life - had kidnapped the kid, grandson to a rich Borginian merchant or sorts. Turns out the cops were onto them, and Daryan took the kid and made a run for it. His other mates got caught – and maybe literally got the high life. Daryan wouldn't know – he got on Alphonse Alfred, Neighbour, took his bike, and never once looked back.

Machi had to go with him of course. He's not letting the kid off to draw the cops a pretty portrait of Daryan, now in RGB. So he got dragged along, and these days he's more accomplice than victim really – it's been almost three years after all. He's not even in the official records any more, or at least, no one would recognize him without a thorough DNA swab. In a couple of years Machi Tobaye will be wiped off, and God rest his soul, he'll be legally dead.

La-la-la-la. One of these days Daryan's gotta sit down and start writing songs about their lives.

"You done yet?' He asked the kid. Machi was licking his fingers, and he wiped his hands clean off on a napkin. Machi's one of the only kids Daryan's ever seen who brings hankies around with him, but then ah, what does he know. Lifestyle of the rich and fabulous – maybe Britney actually has a secret hankering for handkerchiefs. What would he know?

The hands cleaned, the kid discarded the wrapper away too – properly, unlike Daryan. The he nodded like he's about to announce who gets on his will.

"I am...Ready, Mr. Crescend."

"Awesome."

He made no move to get up, and Machi doesn't either. They sat on the bench, starting to warm slightly to them. They were staring at a brick building opposite them, unpainted and slightly grimy with posters stuck on it. One shouted SIX FOR THE PRICE OF FIVE, LIMITED TIME ONLY and it had a picture of some pretty girl with boobs pointing in Daryan's direction. He had no idea what it's selling. Is it trying to convince people looking at it that the you get six beers for the price of five, or six boobs for the price of five? Jesus that's a horrible thought. Would you want to fuck a girl with one boob? Interesting thought. Daryan doesn't want to find out.

They stare at the wall until Daryan's pretty sure that they look like the classic madmen scenario. The street becomes significantly quieter at night, but also a lot busier. Did that make sense? Yes it did. People start to drift by more, walking in twos and threes. Roommates going out for a drink or two together. Couples heading out for dates. Girls preening at closed-down office doors, checking their reflection and on their way to some nice restaurant where they'll hopefully catch the eye of a young entrepreneur and never have to work again for the rest of their lives.

Machi and Daryan doesn't move though, just sit there like homeless hobos. Daryan's eyes never stopped moving. They were like the eyes of a liar, going back and forth as he notes every person who walks by their road. The building they're staring at looks like a derelict building. It's got the rotten fliers on one side of the wall to prove it, mortgage and FOR SALE signs on the other side. It's also got a door behind it, though from where they are, it looks as if it's at the side instead. The door's EXIT sign is lit up, which in itself spelt odd for an apparently deserted building.

Finally, at almost midnight, four hours of sitting and peeing in alleys later, they spotted a limo pulling up beside the building. Daryan's got 20/20 vision – or 40, as he would tell anyone who asked – but even he couldn't see well, due to the bad lighting of the place. The street light next to them is lit, but all it provided is a grey sort of light. All they saw was two men leaving the car, a blue, blocky one made for durability rather than speed.

Daryan watched as the first man comes out. He's not very tall, but his hairdo gives him the extra height. He walks like he's in charge though. Hand tucked in his coat and the other one holding a briefcase, but not in a cowardly way. He doesn't fold his hands behind him either, which some men do to give off the impression that they are in charge. Real people in control, they don't need things like that. Just being there is enough, walking and shushing the crowd without saying a single word...That's presence, charisma, and not all the grooming and manicures and polishing in the world can give you that.

The other man, a taller one, walked after the first man, and then they can't see anything more because the angle of the building massacred their vision. Daryan grunted.

That's him, for certain. Or at least as certain as they're going to get without actually walking up close and examining his ears for surgery marks. The guy who sent them the mail – the usual way – requesting that they help him up with a certain...Problem he had. Not a pay-by-act deal, but a pay-by-time deal. Daryan doesn't care either way, except that the mail came at an opportune time – they were growing maggots back in San Diego and had to jet.

He wondered why the guy chose to hire him though, instead of using his own men. Casualty control? Probably it. Smart man – leave his own men alone, and send someone else's Rook to do all the killing instead. Rook survives? Here, get a horny head and become a bishop. If he dies, he dies – Phoenix Wright loses nothing, and he wouldn't have to pay him a single cent. Smart man, smart man. Ain't you the smart man?

"Come on," He told Machi, getting up. He swung his arms left and right to work out the kinks in them. His bones are deep set into their position, and he felt like frozen chicken in DelMart.

Machi stood too, and folded his sunglasses and pocketed them. Where they're going, it'll be kind of hard to see with a pair of black lenses blocking his way. Machi hoisted his own knapsack, and handed Daryan his guitar case, containing all Daryan's worldly goods. The thing had miraculously survive the whole crash intact, with most of the goods inside still useable.

"Will we be...Alright?" He asked worriedly, looking at the looming shadow of the building. It dwarfs them, like a tower of doom all the way out of hell, inviting sinners. "This is...Bad place."

"What, the old rock? We go to these kind of places all the time," Daryan joked. Well, not Machi maybe, but him definitely. He slapped the kid lightly on the back. "Or you got too little balls to walk into the place now? Thought you were better than that."

He flashed him an annoyed look. "Not rock. City. Bad place. Many things happen...Like ants."

"Like ants huh?" Well, maybe that was a little true. Individual mounds of anthills fighting for the same honey. "Don't worry," Daryan said, flashing him his best, gonna-be-a-rockstar-someday grin. "We'll be fine, and well – if we won't be, I will."

Machi snorted delicately. "One for one, Mr. Crescend?"

"You say it, freak. Now let's waltz."

Armed with two knapsacks and nothing else, the two walked towards the derelict building.

* * *

Daryan loved the kind of bouncers they've got here. It's those kind that disappear when you put money in their banks, so to speak – and this one is no different. You know it by the way they look. All muscles, but when they look at you, and they look you up and down in that oh-so-practised insolent way, you can see the barest fraction of a gleam under those beady eyes.

Daryan saw it, and he extracted one one hundred bill stacks and inserted them into the man's pocket. That man smiles. Crooked teeth. Daryan smiles. Machi quirks his lips. The door opens, and the both of them walked in, and unlike Aladdin's magic cave, it closes behind them, the door – looking like something stolen from a high school locker – slamming shut loudly as if to say you're not getting that money back.

_Bitch._

"You better pray this works out," Daryan joked, pushing Machi along. "'Cuz that's our last couple of hundreds, at least until the money for Redd comes in."

Machi doesn't look impressed, and Daryan turned back to the crowd, picking a suitable point to go into.

If Daryan had any doubts about fitting into the place before diving it, they were dispelled the moment he got in there. The place's got class, he'll admit it right off. It's different from what it looked like outside – way different. The layer of dirty bricks were actually hiding a bar and a dance floor, just as Daryan expected – except he hadn't expected it to be well, classy. All it had were teenagers though, so it ain't hard for him to fit in.

Phoenix Wright's little front – and there's no doubt that this is just a front for those bags of pills being traded around, small time stuff that's more pharmacy than opium – was much cleaner than he had expected. It could almost passed off as a normal club, teenagers shuffling in and out to the rhythm of the music, stuck in some ambient track that sounds a lot like humming on loop to Daryan. The lights were dimmed, and replaced with those club lights that Daryan hated. Those that imprint patterns onto the surroundings, before sliding up and down the wall like the lights were humping the wall itself.

Gives Darcy a headache, and he doesn't like it. But other than that, yeah – the place's got class. Not somewhere Daryan would hit for Saturday night out with the friends he doesn't have to get laid or maybe get drunk, but yeah, it's got it's class.

"Go," Machi hissed, tapping his arm. "People look."

Daryan nodded. People are going to look the moment they notice a kid like him wandering around a place like these. Maybe he should have thrown Machi off somewhere in a cheap motel, but what the hell – who's gonna lug around the luggage? Not Daryan, that would be just plain uncool.

He found a good spot where the crowd is thinner and less zombielike. They creep him out, going back and forth, back and forth on the balls of their feet with their eyes closed. It's like an old zombie show Daryan's seen.

They pick through the crowd, and climbed up the metal staircase that spanned across to the upper seats, the VIP box. No one ever sits here but the manager – and this time the boss. No teenager can bloody afford to even breath the air of these kind of seats, Daryan should know. What Daryan also knew was that the man leaning on it, eyes half-closed like he was sleeping – was their client. A guy who's send them love letters all across the coast line and got them running.

Daryan fought the urge to straighten his jacket, before knocking it off as yet another one of those teenage habits he never quite grew out of, like a comfortable shoe two sizes too small that you somehow still wear anyway. _Why would I need to make myself presentable for him anyway? I'm the one on hire, but that doesn't mean I gotta grovel my ass. I can hit the freeway anytime._ Daryan Crescend's got many takers.

_Ah, but the freeway is overrunning with cops – maybe that's why?_

"...So he's probably going to make a move soon, y'know?" The tall man was saying to another guy. It was some twitchy man that kept wiggling about, like a snake.

"Yes yes, of course. But he'll have a hard time finding buyers for the thing, not unless he can breed junkies."

"Huh." The man grunted, and called out to Wright, the sleeping guy, if photographs proof correct. "What do you think?"

He was preoccupied with frowning at that writhing man. Wright wasn't though, and his eyelids twitched a little as his eyes rolled over to where Daryan and Machi were on the threshold of the stairs.

"I think you should greet our guests, Armando."

The man's frown deepened, and he looked up at where Daryan and Machi were. Daryan winced. _Holy bananas, this guy is a modern day walking pirate. He couldn't have gotten a patch for that thing?_

One of the man's eye had a deep line through it, and from the looks of it – pretty fresh. Daryan hadn't gotten many of those, being relatively lucky (If lucky's the word) to have them on other concealable places. He's no expert on that matter, but this one looked fresh to him, onion-fresh, and the man grinned at him, probably knowing what that eye looked like to Daryan. Mashed potatoes, and it didn't look too sweet when the muscles pull when he smiles either.

"Well, well, hello there – what have we here, stray kittens?" He waved a hand at the writhing and twisting man, and the man disappeared off. "Scram, Sahwit. I'll call you when we need you."

Snake man grins, a gleeful sort of look that Daryan didn't like – and then he climbed off and slithered away down the staff stairs, obviously a regular around here. Maybe he comes on weekends to get some drunk teenagers? Daryan would shudder, if he hadn't seen a million of this type of people. Stereotyping people is bad, he knew – makes you off balance and vulnerable to surprises, but what the hell? It all looks the same after one and a thousand miles.

The one-eyed man cocked his head at them, as though asking them : W_hat are you waiting for, flies and maggots?_ Machi gave Daryan a tiny push from behind, and they walked into the middle of the room.

Once they're there though, it's like all the spotlights were suddenly on them, even though there were only four people in the room – and two of them were well, them. The one-eyed man's one eye was on them, not losing a single shred of sharpness despite it's singularity. He was looking at them as if they were novels or shirts he's planning to buy, but can't make up his mind whether they're a good deal or otherwise. The other man's look at them too, even though he masked the fact through lidded eyes. Daryan's long learned to look at people's eyelids – they twitch when someone's been turning the eye under the skin.

Daryan smoothed a hand over his hair. When in doubt, brazen it out.

"So," Pirate-face drawled. "What business do you have here, kittens? If you're looking for the dance floor, you just passed it."

"Really? Gee, I hadn't noticed. Think I should double back and check?"

"Probably. And probably your eyesight too."

Daryan snorted. "I'm here, in case you haven't heard – because your boss ringed us up for our services. Kinda like whores, except sexier. Think he's remembering that, with that kind of constipating look he's got there?"

The man smirked, instead of acting all defensive. Daryan had thought that man was some kind of bodyguard – what with the eye like that – but guess first impression's not always right. Maybe he's like, some other gang leader or a friend? No matter – Daryan's business was not with him.

Machi sniffed beside him. "Strange man." He announced stiffly.

Daryan smiled. The man elbowed Wright, drawling, "Hey, you wanna wake up, Trite? People are going to think you've got narcolepsy."

Spikes grinned, and as Daryan had expected, opened his eyes immediately. No sleeping fool would be able to do so – and his eyes were wide awake to prove it.

"Well," He shot back. "How am I going to skip out on all the work if I don't pretend to be asleep all the time?"

"How can you call yourself a man you bunch of..."

Wright only grinned in answer – man with an easy smile. He turned to them, and the grin slips off, and he's all business, with a serious and solemn face. Man who doesn't joke around either.

"So you two. I gather you're Daryan Crescend – and his partner in crime?"

"Yes we are," Daryan said, not in the mood to do snark.

"Machi," Machi said simply by way of introduction. Wright gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, before turning back to Daryan. No mistaking who's the primary head of the Hydra here either.

"I'm sorry there aren't any welcoming mat services for you guys. I hadn't expected you guys to get here so fast," He explained. "I only sent the message down what, a few days ago? When did I send out for them, Armando?" He asked absentmindedly.

"Three." Armando replied. _As if you don't know_, Daryan thought. _As if you don't have photographic memory, and is just putting up some kind of rubbish act to pretend you're such a nice man. This isn't a cop show buddy – no one's a good cop here_.

"That's right, three was it. I hadn't expected you guys to arrive so early – I had heard that you guys were getting popular in the business, or at least you've tripped across enough cops to piss people off. Ah, wait a second," He lit up a cigarette and took a deep breath. "Ah, that's better. Now we may talk better, yes?"

He gestured at the both of them, still slightly dirty from their journey. "What's with the dirty look, or is it the new fashion?"

"Hammond was after my ass," Daryan explained. "Tripped across his people."

'Ah, then you must have also tripped across their wires."

" I didn't trip across cop wires," Daryan retorted. "It was just that Hammond being a shit head."

"Or maybe you did – literally so, and that's why he's hunting you down."

"Don't give me that fuckery – I don't make mistakes. I don't know how he got in on us, but you can be sure it wasn't because I made a mistake."

"Yes...I heard you were the one behind White's latest...Soiling?" He cracked a grin at his own joke – though it was a grim one that Daryan didn't feel like laughing at. This man's been digging about him, he sees. Common, he supposed, considering what he's probably hiring him for and the kind of circles he worked for – he just hadn't expected it to be dug up so quickly, while the mud's not even had time to cake down into cracks.

There are many people who work like Daryan – some of them form teams. There's one for example, that moves about in the guise of a circus that he knows, makes transporting large pieces of equipment easier. They're not hitmen, per se – hitman make it sound like blood money, like they were a man in a suit with a number tacked behind his neck. They're far simpler things – they're just humans who get paid, who get things done 'cuz they like the money and your average gang member doesn't like to do the things they do.

Robbery, beating up people? Those the normal guys do. Discreet burglary, offing the Kennedys of the underworld? Not so much, thanks – carries a life penalty, pal.

These people – that's to say, Daryan and co – are secretive too, and he would hardly like it bandied about that yes bitches, the one who put that hole in Redd White's magnifulous, prettyful, shinygaziwhatever forehead is them.

"I see you've been busy, Mr. Wright." He said stonily.

The man's loses his smile – that seems to be a VIP thing too, like their boxes. An elitist club gets to see him joke, and none outside it. Playful with friends, serious to wild dogs. Two-faced much, Mr Wrong? "Yes, you could say that. I like to know the kind of people I work with."

"Rude," Machi announced. "If want know, should ask?"

Wright flicked some ashes off, looking bored. "I knew there was something I forgot. Ask, of course. Could have reminded me, Armando."

Armando doesn't respond. It seems they are twin Terminators onto the same power source – when one functions, the other one goes into sleep. It's probably because it's easier to observe people, see their little twitches when you're not talking and concentrating on looking instead.

"At any rate, I applaud the both of you. You've arrived here in such a short span of time – and one of you not even old enough to be in here. Very well done, Mr. Crescend and Machi."

"If we wanted to listen to your applause, we would have gone to one of my shows," Daryan shot back. Ah, did some of those when they're not busy. Sells out all the time too, even if they're just rock bars most of the time. He felt awkward standing, and dragged Machi backwards with him, falling into the opposite couch. "So cut the shit out, loser – what did you call us here for? I hope you've got a job for us, or you're paying our travel bill with your face."

A flicker of annoyance across his face. "I gather you've heard what things are like around here?"

"Around here where? L.A? SoCal? California? The _world_? I'm a genius man, but I don't read minds."

"L.A," He clarified. "Specifically, our turf, and the turf around here."

"Yeah, we heard. Big deal this past week. Lots of hacking and limbs."

"Ah," Flick flick. Ashes on the ground. "You get the news on the road then?"

"There is...newspaper, Mr. Wright. Very good thing in America – tells you much thing."

Wright snorted. "Oh those, I thought they've gone and gone bankrupt."

"Handy when you need to wrap stuff, that's why housewives still buy them." Daryan tapped his fingers and counted to ten. This man is wasting his time, and he's starting to think there's got no job here to be dug. If that's the case, then they're on hot dogs till the money for Redd's job come in. Daryan wouldn't go so far as to announce that they're gonna off this shithead for wasting their time – he's not so dumb as to provoke a guy obviously out of their realm – but he can't say he's fond of assholes who waste his time.

Wright noticed the finger-tapping, and he leaned forward.

"To business then. You have heard then, of Gavinne, I presume?"

"Gavinne? Yeah, I have."

"And what do you know of them?" He asked.

Daryan frowned. What game is this? Pin the Gavinne? "It's an okay gang I guess. It's pretty big, but not the best. Pretty good at smuggling. Suck in full out-front confrontations. More maggots than an opened coffin. G stands for Grudges, that's what the city says. That's all I know."

Wrights elbows were on the table in front of him, and his hands flexed together, the fingers meeting at the tips.

"Then I'll tell you what you don't know. L.A's divided into five gangs. Rivales, Gavinne, Gramarye, Kitaki, and Cadaverinni. Now, Cadaverinni is ailing. Their leader is missing – and no one knows where she is." He says this straight front, and it's the eyes of a truthspeaker, or a very good liar. "Kitaki wants out of the business, and their heir is in the jail as we speak. Rivales is eaten from the inside – a man name Wellington's been siphoning funds out of the place with his gained trust, and there's been rumours of many of their members quitting to join a doomsday cult based here. So proof to me, Mr. Crescend, that I haven't chose a stupid man for this job : Do me some math. How many gangs are left in the run?"

"Two," Machi replied. Daryan shot him a look.

"I could have count, thanks a lot."

"Could have, but wrong," He giggled.

Wright smiled at Machi. "Right, kiddo. Two. It's just us and Gavinne left, and I'm none too happy with 'em folks. You could say that you're right when you said the whole group's a can of worms : the leader is the biggest worm of them all." Daryan raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged.

"The truth," He said simply. "Hard to call a gigantic white slug an angel, I'm a straightforward kinda man."

Armando snorted so hard, Daryan thought he would spray whatever he's drinking right out of his nose. Wright ignored him and pressed on. "And now, magic question, folks. You know of the drugs that's been moved into the city, don't you? Can't read the news and not know, so I'll tell you up front – no use lying. I just want to know how much."

Daryan's face is impassive. Yeah, he knows _of _the drugs. Probably even more than these two put together, if you don't mind him. At the man though, he only shrugged, as though they were talking about kidney stones and not white diamonds. "All we know is what we scraped up from the same-job folks. There were drugs. Were Cadaverinnis. Were yours. Now gone."

"Gavinne's got it," Wright announced. Machi's brows raised, and Daryan's face rearranged into a shocked look.

"Is that so?"

"Yeap, condition of the world right now."

"And that's got something to do with us...?"

Wright leaned back, and this time when he said business – Daryan knew he really meant business. He's heard rumours that Phoenix Wright might have been real good at dealing with Zak Gramarye's enemies, but that he's gone soft with age. He defies them all though, and Daryan just calls them a fool in his mind.

This man and that man – Gavinne - is no different. One hides it under a layer of polish and smiles. This one hides it under a modest facade. Perhaps they differ in degree of rottenness, but then they're all rotten apples. Even Daryan is one. Only difference is if it's gone from core to skin, or just around the heart.

"I'll make it simple. I want those drugs back. I don't know where they are – and it's your job to find that out for me. It's not easy – and I don't expect it to be, or I won't be hiring you two. And in the meantime, I want you to borrow a boy of Gavinne's for me."

"Borrow?" Daryan asked. "You mean kidnap?"

"Borrow. Don't make a fuss about it. I want the kid – and I want it silently, without Gavinne ever knowing, do you understand me?"

Daryan smirked. Yeah, can see where this is going now. _Itsy bitsy spider, climbing up the wall._..

This is awesome. It's like being an immaterial object, like a knife. Handy tool you gotta pay for, and it gets the job done for you. You don't needa use your own men, which would be far easier to be recognized by Gavinne. Yeah, Daryan's starting to get the picture now. Smart man he said, and he'll say it again – smart man. Looks like Gavinne hadn't known what he's getting into when he rubbed this guy all over with chilli powder.

"I'm gonna need details though. Day, time, place – and obviously, the guy we gonna nab."

"You can do it whenever, I don't give a damn – but at least make it quick. I'm not the recycling committee for his empty boxes. The guy though..."

Armando pulls up a case, behind it a file, and gives the file to Daryan. Daryan flipped through it and raised an eyebrow. It didn't look like a hard job – looks like just another wimpy kid. Guess it must be more intricate than poor ol' Daryan is capable of knowing.

_Well, he'll surprise these folks one day, won't he?_ He thought nastily.

He handed the file to Machi, whom entered it into his rucksack like a faithful ol' secretary. "Got it. Get you the guy then. You know the price I roll by, right?"

"Outrageous," Armando quipped, and slid the briefcase over too. Machi clicked it open, then clicked it shut.

"How much?" Daryan asked, not bothering to look. Machi wasn't kidding when he said he was better with numbers.

"Fifty."

"So much?" Daryan shot at them. Usually it didn't go pass forty, and that's the whole job. "Not afraid I'll run off with the bling?"

Wright gave him a hard smile – a real politician's smile, with a real politician's handshake to go with it. "Think of it as trust money. I think we'll have some business for you yet."

"Huh." Daryan said nothing, only extracted his hand from the handshake. Almost too quickly, and he hoped he hadn't dived into this one too quickly either. Money's good and all, but his ass – and Machi's – is kinda more valuable. No sense in worrying...For now. Right? Here today, gone tomorrow. True for bananas, true for money.

He nodded at Machi, and the both of them left, Machi cradling the briefcase like a baby someone's just handed him fresh. They slipped out the way they came in – the music still pounding in that rhythmic beat that's gonna stick in Daryan's head all night long.

* * *

Diego's eye was veiled, right until they left. Once they did, Phoenix snapped his fingers and leaned over the edge of the seating, calling down to the deejay.

"Hey, change that music. Getting on my nerves."

There's a murmur of protest amongst the disgruntled teenagers, but then the music changes into something rocking, and they forgot it, merely changing how they were dancing. The music's the strings to their puppet self.

"You couldn't have changed that earlier?" Diego asked. "I thought you always said these asshole music were for elevators."

"I did. But it says here in Psychology 101 that music helps you manipulate people better."

"That's shit."

"True, but hey – it's some shit we should invest in. Since we're dealing with Gavinne, why not learn a few mindfuckery techniques?"

Diego would have rolled his eyes at him, if it didn't hurt his face. Yeah, it hurts real bad when he moves that side of his face too much. Phoenix's offered him to go off and have some surgery done so that he can stop scaring the potential bed partners away, but Diego had declined. Hiding behind a mask – especially such a pretentious one – is simply not his way.

And speaking of ways.

"You're getting as sneaky as that Gavinne, Trite."

Wright raised his eyebrows innocently, and put down his little book. "How so?"

"Telling Hammond that you've called for them – and that they'll be heading down the San Diego-L.A roads? That was low."

Wright snapped the book shut, laughing. But it's a hard sort of laugh, that Diego's come to differentiate. There's Phoenix, whom you crack jokes with, and then there's Wright, whom you do business with.

"Well a little tussle is good for them. If they're hurt, they'll be more likely to accept my offer, what with Hammond patrolling the road like a bloodhound. I wasn't sure if they would accept the job, so I cut off their retreating road, is all."

"And now they can't turn back until the thing dies down. I don't know if I should call you a smart man or a coward, Wright."

"Call me a smart coward then," He retorted. "It's not trickery, it's just brains. A few tricks I've been learning off Gavinne, is all."

"And the justificatory way of talking too, it seems like."

Phoenix looked angrily at him, before blowing another mouthful of smoke out. "I don't give a damn. He stepped on these toes first, and I'll be damned if I dance ballet with him on crushed toes. He wants to waltz? I'll _jive_ with him."

Diego said nothing. Had the power got into the head, or was it Mister Wrath? Should we watch some shows? This ain't the seventies anymore. You can't practice The Godfather on these streets and expect to come away from it, scot-free. They have DNA now, fingerprinting. You spit on some sod's face, and they CSI you. You bring your hair-fall problem to the battlefield, and they CSI you. Hell, if he drank coffee on the scene, they'll probably find some way to trace his sterilized mug back to his beans. It's not a good game plan.

"Look," Phoenix snapped. "I don't like being played for a fool, alright? So are you with me, or are you with me?"

Diego sighed. That's the answer. Phoenix's face relaxed.

"Now come on, can it, you mugger. We're going to discuss how Kristoph Gavinne is _not_ going to be selling those drugs of his."


	11. X : Wrong Sized Shoes

A-Ah, I'm flattered. Anyway, sorry for the late updates. I had to stay up for days cramming for my exam (One year worth of not-studying, coming back and hitting me in the face) and had some major writer's block. Here's the next chapter. x_x

Also, I'm afraid I OOC'd Wocky. I'm not very good with him, and well, I find him sort of overblown. Do gangsters really talk like that? Because mostly I just find that they growl when they talk and their tenor/baritone makes it hard to hear what they say. They sure as hell don't blizzoy the press. So uh yeah, long story short, I suck at characterization, I botched Wocky up.

* * *

_Ten : Wrong sized shoe_

_-  
_

It was three days later after the latest helter-skelter on the highway when Apollo Justice was in the detention center. He's here for the third case he's running since he joined the firm, and three in five seems to him a very great accomplishment. He's billing people now – not as much as the other two were, but he's billing people, and those bills number like someone's national security number.

It may look boring to you – a lawyer who goes to work at eight in the morning and comes home at five, but you won't be saying so if you're looking at his paycheck.

Not to mention, as long as Gavinne doesn't call in, he has free rein to do however he pleases. He's been quite worried, you see. Quite worried.

Quite worried that he might be under the mob's control for every single case – and having to change the verdict however Gavinne wants it. That's not the case, as Liam had explained to him in that insanely clipped, children-recital accent.

"Gavinne hardly ever calls for us, Justice, but if he does, you drop everything but your pants and go running. I understand that that is not a pretty euphemism, or a bright way to start your career here, but you must understand. Gavinne pays our bills, our rents, our everything. We're allowed to haul our own stuff and work our own cases for money. If we don't work and just live on his paycheck, we would live too. Maybe without a car or two, but we will live. We take these cases, and they're what we do most of the time – just remember, always remember, that because he's paying our bills – he's our biggest client. If he calls, you run. Other than that, we may do as we please."

Jacques' explanation was much easier to understand :

"Go with God, unless Gavinne rings your bell."

Go with God indeed.

Apollo's first stop of the day was the detention center. He's here for the case of Wocky Kitaki – so jumbled he could hardly see into the file without getting a migraine. The testimony doesn't match, the case looks pretty deadlocked, and the worse thing is, Wocky Kitaki is proclaiming his guilt on every bleeding rooftop between here and Las Vegas, shouting out his guilt to anyone who's stopping long enough to listen.

Every interview he's gone to, he's saying it. He might as well have painted it on his forehead to save him all the work – and Apollo's here today to straighten him out, not to mention get the necessary information out of him. He can't have a defendant that admits to the crime, nor can Wocky Kitaki have a defense who hasn't got a clue beyond that Pal Meraktis is dead, and according to the report that just arrived on his desk today like Ganta Clause's present : so is his fiancee.

Guess who the crime's on?

He had been so used to being the P.D that the moment he had arrived at the detention center, he had gone right up to the desk and ask after the interrogation room.

"Is anyone using it at the moment?"

The lady looked up at him, long-suffering and cranky. These types always are – must be the side effect of looking at so many shits a day. "No, there's no one using it at the moment."

"Ah." Apollo shuffled a little. "So can I um, have it? There's a defendant I want to interview and..."

"And you want the room? Why can't you just use the normal visitor's cell and be done with it?" Her accent sounds strange. Like a Latin gal trying to speak with a clipped nose.

"It's well, easier to get the point across when you're face to face you know? The plastic sorts of diminish the effect, and you can't shake hands or get your points across as easily. So...May I?"

The woman looked him up and down. "Sorry kid – the place's only for the and the prosecutors. And you're not one – I can tell you that much."

"Eh..." Apollo sighed. He had been hoping he'll get in easily. After all, it was kind of hard to talk to Wocky Kitaki with a plastic in between. It's not vital or anything, he's not going to lose his hairdo or his sleep over it, but it would be a help. And Apollo's motto is always this : When you can have help, get help. Help is good. It means you do lesser, and you learn more. It's call learning to pick your battles – or your weapons in this case. Why go for the switchblade when a cannon's lying in plain sight?

So instead, he pulled out the business card Constans handed him.

"What's this?" She asked suspiciously. "I'll have to warn you – our facility might not be the police, but our rules and regulations are extremely..." She trailed off as she read the firm name printed onto it. "You're from this firm?"

"Yeah," Apollo nodded.

"I've never seen you before," She said again. Apollo flushed.

"I've um, been around actually. Just that I used to be a public defense and I could just waltz in so um, yeah."

"Huh." The lady turned around and left for the staff room. "Stay here," She ordered, as if Apollo had a naughty habit of running around people's belongings when they're not there. "I'm going to check the list."

Apollo had no idea what this 'list' thing is, but he was starting to get a hint of it. Sure enough, the lady returned a moment later, lips pulled across tightly in irritation.

"The firm's on the list. You can use the room if you want." She told him. "But only if you obey the rules – no fighting, no beating up the defendants, and for the last time (I'll say this but I know you won't obey it anyway) no trading things in. Not that you will listen, but I'll have it here on black and white. You can't say I didn't tell you the rules before you went in."

"Thanks," Apollo said graciously, accepting the returned card. "So um..." He looked at the staff door curiously. "What's this whole list thing? Is there like, a whole list of firms whose lawyers are allowed state privileges or something?"

Curiosity killed the cat, Apollo. But it's okay, he's human. The lady snorted at him.

"You really are new, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," He said, almost pushing his chin out defiantly. Curiosity killed the cat, and Apollo's got a bucket worth of that same curiosity about how things work. Most often than not, it lands him in trouble. Like his liver though, it's inseparable.

"Hmph." The lady nodded, happy that he admits to his flaws. "Well, I'll tell you if you really want to know. It's something senator vonKarma set up in our system. It didn't used to be like this." At this, her face flushed angrily. "It used to be a fine working system, totally a-okay – until that man stepped up to the seat. He's the worse senator we've ever had – I can tell you that."

"How so?" Apollo almost open his notebook to write this down, but the lady probably wouldn't take kindly to it.

"Well he accepts bribes – and he accepts lots of it. Worse thing is, no one stands up to him. He changed the whole way we work, and no one says a thing to his face, no one goes to his house to do die-ins, or if they do, they get put away by his daughter. I mean, I know it's illegal to do all that strike stuff, but I sure do feel sorry for these kids they haul in from his place. It's not their fault, ya know what I mean? They never did any wrong but to sling mud on shit, if you'll excuse mah vocabulary."

The more animated the lady was, the more some southern accent comes to the surface.

"And now I ain't liking to badmouth people, but I reckon we can't just let bygones be bygones, ya know? Someone's gotta dig that man out, and someone's better dig fast or I'll take that shovel outta their hands!"

"Um...Can you perhaps, tell me exactly what he did that's gotten you so mad?"

"Oh!" She cried. "Don't even get me started on it! He's the one who started this list system in all the detention center, and word has it even in some of the prisons. Basically we're like an interstate night club – you gotta be on the list to get in. Reckgiven that you gotta be rich or powerful or both to get in. If you're in a gang for example, or work for one, and the boss pays his dues to vonKarma, it gets you want you want."

Apollo's eyes widened. He had heard of senator vonKarma a little – from friends and some heavyweight magazine mostly, but it's never unflattering. Most magazines would go for miles telling you how wonderful vonKarma is, and how _fabeautiful_, as one guy down in San Diego had put it – and he told the lady so.

"Of course not! I told ya, didn't I? The press don't shovel fast enough. They're all under his control – now if I were out on the streets, you can bet I'll shovel the dirt out of him faster than ever. Thanks to him, we gotta show these hoity-toity folks in and let them do as they please. There was one jerk who brought in a bomb last week and tried to blow the place up like a _goddaaaaaamned _Bueno Nacho shop like back in my hometown and guess why we didn't scan him? 'Cuz of vonKarma's laws!"

"Really?" Apollo gulped at the ferocity of her glare. Now this is a new thing. Apollo's never heard of these sort of stuff, at least not back in the P.D where everyone always watches what they say because you never know who might report back to the chief P.D. He felt a little naïve, a little uneducated to the ways of the world, but he was learning, so it's a good thing, right?

"Why don't you go and spread it around in the press then?"

"Are you crazy?" The lady looked at him like he was. "I got me a lot of facts, but I can tell ya something, it's not paying my bills. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll speak back in yer folks' good language before my boss gets in on me talking like a girl out of the heartland."

"Oh, um, alright." Apollo smiled weakly, and offered his hand to shake. It felt like the right thing to do, though he was pretty sure he can't be this lady's first confidant. "Thanks for the information, ma'am."

"The name's Lotta Hart, but don't go calling me Officer Hart, plain old Lotta would do." She announced, shaking his hand. Well, he thought, smiling at her. This sure is a friendly lady – she's gone from being grumpy to shaking his hand like a maraca within minutes.

"What's yours?"

"Apollo Justice."

"Good! Now if you ever hear anything bad, anything juicy and just reeking in yesterday's garbage about senator vonKarma, and you got the photos to back it up – you come to me, you hear? I've got some connections, and I'm not afraid to use it! One word to the OLDBAG society and we'll floor him like a prizewinner."

"Oh, alright." He took his hand back, and didn't wipe it clean like he wanted to. What an enthusiastic person – and Apollo wasn't sure if he should like her or be very very afraid. Like Trucy, with an Afro. What a disturbing image. "I'll um, be going now. I still need that information from Wocky Kitaki."

"Sure, go on. I'll get him for you, I will. Now I better speak in your posh accents again, ah...Life, life..."

* * *

Apollo Justice have now moved, courtesy of one Officer Hart. He waited for Wocky Kitaki in the interrogation room, and he wondered briefly if it was a bad idea to have asked for this room. After all, the advantage can go both ways – and Wocky Kitaki might just decide that Apollo's face looks better stuck onto the metal tables. Loud, Apollo Justice is, but his voice is not made to shout for help.

"Didn't I say I want no meeting with all these shoestrings!?.... you hard of hearing or something, lady?"

Apollo could hear someone talking loudly out there. The room's quiet see, and you can hear pretty much anything. Officer Hart was probably escorting his client – his _client_, oh how long he's long to call someone his client and not his case – to the room. Sure enough, the door sprang apart, and Officer Hart was cuffing Wocky like a naughty puppy.

"Now don't gimme that lip, kid – I got 'em more than you." The officer gave him a light push, and Wocky – which Apollo guessed had to be the kid – stumbled forwards.

"Whoa hey! I ain't afraid of you! A G ain't afraid of nobody!"

"Yeah? Well you better be afraid of me, because I'm from the heart of the heartland and you _betchaood _we're all tough folks!"

The door slammed shut in Wocky Kitaki's face, and he shouted at it, waving a fist at it. "Ain't no cop bringing me down, yo!"

The door did not look suitably impressed.

Apollo decided that as a defense attorney, it wasn't to his advantage to be overlooked. He stood to clear his throat, startling the kid.

"Woah hey--" The kid – and he can't be more than a kid looking like that. Apollo knew he was nineteen, but he looked to Apollo more like some kid fresh out of high school – jumped backwards. Apollo hadn't attacked him, but he might as well had for all the reaction he got – Wocky Kitaki looked ready to fight back if Apollo threw himself at him and bit his ear off right there.

"Who the hell are you? Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Uh..Sorry." Apollo blurted out. "But I was here in the room first, really," He added defensively.

"The humans were here first before the statue of liberty, so the liberty got a right to freak people out?"

"Ah, no. I think."

"That's right! Why you gotta go and act all sneaky man - you from the Rivales or something? I ain't afraid of you!"

Wocky looked downright jumpy, but it was Apollo who took a step backwards. No, this is too much for him to handle – just looking at this guy and his badger shirts were enough to drive him into migraines, and he hadn't been in his company for more than five minutes.

He shook his head. Get it together Apollo. He stuck a hand out and said, in his calmest, most professional voice. "I'm a defense attorney – your defense attorney actually. I've been assigned – I mean, I got hired to defend you."

"My defense? Yo, I never heard anything like that from the G in da slammer. Who the hell hired you? I know I sure as hell hadn't hired a pinhead like you."

_Why you little---_

"Your father did actually. Mr. Winfred Kitaki. I am to represent you for your case, which will go to trial next week." He thrust his hand out. "Apollo Justice."

Wocky looked at his outstretched hand like it was a rotten apple. "You got a funny name, man. You made it up yourself or something?"

"Uh, no. Everyone back in the orphanage had names like that. There was even a kid who was named Spoon, so no, I hadn't made it up. Seat?"

He waved at the other plastic chair, and Wocky Kitaki took it. He radiated hostility through every pore of his being, and Apollo didn't know what to think of the guy. He was pretty sure before he walked in here that he had been the one who had done it – all the facts pointed towards it, and he had expected to wiggle his way out of this one the usual way. Be slimy and vague, and victory would be yours. Except for the fact that Wocky Kitaki is shouting out his guilt.

That one he wasn't so sure on : No one who is truly guilty would admit to it, unless the man's a psychopath. Looking at Wocky now, he wasn't too sure. Did the kid really do it, or not?

No way but the highway. Wocky made himself comfortable in his seat, looking around the room – must be a sight to see after a whole week of wall-staring. He started. "So Mr. Kitaki, I'm sure you can guess what I'm here for. Since I'm representing you in the case, I need you to provide me with information – as much as you --"

"Don't call me mister, mister. Mister's the old man, I ain't no mister. The name's Wocky, and if you can't remember the name, then step up yo – and I'll wash it into your head."

"Right. Wocky, I'll be brief with you--"

"Ain't no one's ever brief with me when they say so."

"Wocky, stop interrupting me."

"Huh."

"Now, since you don't look like you appreciate twisty words, I'll be frank with you. That okay with you?"

Wocky just shrugged a whatever shrugged. Like Apollo could get up and dance the cancan for all he cared. Apollo took it in stride though, any moment of silence is a chance.

"I'm here to discuss the case of Pal Meraktis with you. It says here in your testimony...That you killed him. But you were being vague and uncooperative with the officer. No mention of how you did it, except that you were claiming to do so. You didn't explain what happened there in People's Park either, as well as the tangle of footsteps on the ground. In short, I've got no information, and I'll be frank okay? I'm not winning this case with this."

"Then maybe you're not trying hard enough. And anyway – it was the truth. I killed that asshole. Does it matter if I did it with a gun or a shiv? Because either way pork chop looks like pork chop to me, and homicide or first-degree sounds 'bout the same."

"That's not the way the court runs."

"I don't like the way the court runs, it runs like a fucking Noh show."

"Even if you don't like it – it's rules, and we have to follow the rules. And the rules say you can't just go out there with a testimony like this."

"I look like I give a shit to you?"

"Well," He paused. "No."

"See?" Wocky said. "Go home, lawyerman, you're wasting my time, yo. Steel Samurai's starting in half, so why don't you just scram?" He snorted, laughing at the irony of the statement.

"This is serious business, Wocky. Drop that act of yours for a minute." He brushed his slightly drooping hairdo off furiously. "I know you apparently will die if you cooperate for once in your life and talk to people like a decent human being, but this is serious, alright?" Apollo opened up the file and slid it over for him to look at it. A compilation of every single charge the prosecution is bringing against Wocky – and you had better believe when he said there's a lot of those. And also, just to screw it into the kid's head, Apollo had prepared a whole list of the kind of punishment he would be facing if he got indicted.

That one even a moron could read. Capital punishment for a capital chap. Death.

Wocky's eyes trailed all the way to the last word. "I'm not afraid of death," He told Apollo. He wasn't even joking, and that was what Apollo didn't like. Something's wrong about the kid – there's something flat in his eyes.

When Apollo had seen his file, all Wocky's photos were full of life. Proud momma Plum Kitaki had even shown him a video of her poor Wocky, and the one thing they all had in common disregarding the age was that he was energetic in all of them. Now, even though he was acting like a 50 cent member, there's something...Lost about him.

It's the way Trucy gets whenever she starts thinking about good old mom, and Apollo didn't like it. Hits to close the thing he sees in the mirror sometimes, when he gets all sentimental and stuff.

"I'm not afraid of death, Mr. Justice," He said again, and he looks serious this time. The kind of look you see on terrorists' face when they send you that last damned video before they go KABOOM in your favourite Mac restaurant. There are two kinds of those. One is an insane, half-hysterical grin. This is the other, a resolute look.

"I'm not afraid of death," He says again, just to get the point across.

"Well you should be, because the punishment for murder these days is lethal injection, and if you keep doing this--" He stabbed a finger at the file. "If you keep proclaiming that you're guilty, then write me into your will, Wocky. I wouldn't mind, and you wouldn't either – because this time next year you'll be dead."

Harsh truth, true truth.

Wocky fell quiet at the last word, and the me ringed uncomfortably in the room. It sounded like someone's cupping their mouths up in Mount Improbable and shouting out the words, the way it ring-rang and bounced off the walls like rubber balls. Wocky obviously wasn't quite used to being shouted at.

"So are you going to cooperate or not?" Apollo demanded.

Wocky glared at him. "Fuck no – you hard of hearing or something? Go clean your ear of wax – I don't need you. Go home, Mr. Lawyer, go eat some shit, play with some sticks – Wocky Kitaki's got none to say to ya."

Wocky scowled at him. Apollo scowled back at him. Then he noticed something.

"What's that on your forehead?" Apollo questioned, peering closely at him. The light's bad in the room, but he could see something that looked like-- "Wocky, is that a wound on your forehead?"

"What? No way man – no shit!" He tugged uncomfortably at his sleeves, and Apollo was seized by a conviction that he probably had more of those under that jacket.

"Yes it is," Apollo snapped back. He had no idea why he cared – except he did. It's a serious business, someone being beaten up in a detention center – and someone had to be notified. Apollo simply wouldn't settle for less until the whole bureaucracy shook. It's wasn't just the fact that he's his client either – he was outraged at the idea that something like this could be happening in a so-call state-of-art facility for security.

First there's a list, and now officers who apparently don't care – or have overlooked it. What's happening to the state? Why don't we all just beat our chests and go back to cavemen?

"Did someone beat you up in the detention center? Is that how you got that wound?"

The kid's fringe was covering his forehead, but even so, you can see it. Even in the dark. It wasn't life-threatening, but it could have been. If – that's the key word here, and there's a lot of ifs in the world. Someone – Wocky – could have been seriously hurt, and while Apollo had just met him and felt no obligation to him, it's common decency that he should be enraged. His messiah complex wouldn't settle for less.

"I say it wasn't! And anyway, I gave back as good as I got--"

"You were in a fight? In a security facility?" Apollo said incredulously. "And no one stopped you?"

"The lady was looking away! And it ain't a big deal – scratches are what makes a G."

'Then you wouldn't win me a prize as a scratch-and-win card, Wocky – because those are a lot of scratches." He said. "No, someone's got to answer for this. I think I'll talk to that officer – what's her name – Officer Hart? I'll talk to her, and then we'll get you moved to another cell where you won't get into trouble."

Knowing Wocky, he was probably the one who had started the fight, with that mouth of his. But no matter what kind of justification you gave it, or how bad a person Wocky Kitaki is – and he really wasn't such a bad person, if a little scary – you just don't beat people up in security facilities, is all.

It;s against rules, it's against regulations, and if there's one religion Apollo Justice prays to every night before he turns up his toes, it's rules and regulations. R & R.

Whenever possible, that is.

"Aw man, you don't have to do that." He sniffed a little though, and rubbed his nose. "But meh, that was awright of you."

Apollo nodded, acknowledging. Then he asked him. "Does it hurt?"

"What? No shit man. I got worse tussling with Saka back home. Damn freakshows ain't enough to bring this badass down."

Apollo thought the wound look kind of ugly, even if it was threatening. If he even mentioned it in the slightest, he knew he would be wiped off though. Instead, he settled on : "So what did you fought with that for?"

Wrong question, it seems, or perhaps the best one.

Wocky went silent.

That was the only way Apollo could describe it. It takes a moment, he registers what Apollo's asking him, and then he just spaces out as the trail of thought bring him to goodness knew where.

Just went silent – stopped talking. Just staring at Apollo like he had just told him alien nations exist and the Pink Floyd is actually a kind of hippopotamus that lives in the Sahara desert and swim across quicksand. No, it wasn't disbelief. It was like someone had taken a hammer to him and knocked Wocky Kitaki right out of Wocky Kitaki. Bam, slam, count to nine – you're out, boy.

"Wocky?"

"H-Huh?"

"What did you guys fought about? Was it because you were being rude to them?"

"U-Uh, yeah. That was it – I was being rude to them, yeah."

But that agreement felt sour, deflated, a balloon you've taken the oxygen out of. Wocky just isn't the kind of person who admits to being wrong before you 1-2 his face, and that he's admitting to it now – it just reeks like a smelly apple pie.

"Tell me the truth, Wocky. What on Earth did they beat you up for?"

"I told you – I was being rude to them."

Not changing there. "Fine, what did you say to them?"

"I told them their mum's fannys are the size of Mount Everest, flipped upside down."

Apollo pursed his lips. He had no idea if he should laugh at this kid or cry in frustration. "Alright, fine. So why did you tell them that?"

"They were breathing my air."

"Wocky..." Apollo sighed. "Look, this is getting out of hand. I came here for Meraktis. If you won't tell me about that, won't you at least tell me about this whole fight thing. It's my duty," He pointed out. "As your attorney, I should see to your welfare for the duration of your trial – and that includes your stay in the detention center."

"L-Look, it was nothing! It was just some stupid stuff! We were fighting over-over...Over pudding! Yeah! That's what we fought over, man – and you better believe it!'

Apollo wasn't buying it. So he changed tack. Living with Trucy's taught him a lot of stuff, most of all how to deal with kids, or like this one – a brat who's not growing up, even though he should be way more mature at this stage in life. God knows Apollo had been way more, and he tend to measure people by his heights.

"Oh, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"You know what? I think you're lying." Apollo said. Wocky looked furious.

"I'm not lying, yo! That's just uncool. We're fighting over food, 'cuz there's so little of it here. You got a problem with that?"

"Naw, it's not the food thing. I bet it was really because they were ridiculing you, right?"

"What? Hell no!"

"No, no, tell the truth – really. Wocky – you act the part, but you're no real gangster. I've met one before, and he laid a hole in my wall, and I don't mean he humped it. He shot the thing when I gave him trouble, and I don't think he was too concerned with the cop folks either. I've met one – and I can tell you something, he wasn't like you. He was way cooler, you know? More suave, more...Godfather. Whereas you're more like the stuff people plaster on thrashy hip-hop CDs. That was what they said about you, right?"

"No! That wasn't – It was-- It just isn't, alright?"

"Mhmm," Apollo goaded, pasting on a condescending look. Trucy never fails to fly off the handle when he gives her his superior look – and he had no reason to believe that this kid would be otherwise. "Ah, come on." He was actually enjoying this, in a weird sort of way. He was probably going to get socked one for this – but hell. Wocky acted tough, but Apollo doubted if he was really as bad as he painted himself out to be.

If he's half the thug he acted, there would be an Apollo shape on the metal table by now. Hey, Apollo could be a bad cop if he wanted to – and under normal circumstances, he knew Wocky would laugh at his pathetic attempts to act like a bad cop. Except Wocky isn't laughing, probably couldn't if he wanted to – and it probably struck too close to home and hit too raw a nerve for him to laugh it off.

"Listen, it's just you and me, alright? It's just us and this room. You can tell me what they said – what was it that they decided on this time? I heard a lot when I was in the orphanage. Was it your mom, or your aunt, or your grandma?" He gasped. "No! It wasn't your _grandpa_, was it?"

"No-- it was---"

"Or did they decided to go in for the kill and mention your hairdo? There was one back in the old shop that said that and boy did it--"

"THEY SAID I KILLED HER!"

The roar stopped conversation short.

Wocky was flushed – and he looked no different from the colour of his jacket – pink all over, and it wasn't the nice, blushing kind of pink. "They said I was the one who killed her," He added in a strangled tone. "I wasn't—I mean, I hadn't. I would never hurt Atila man – she was such a sweet thing. Why would I..."

He grounded his teeth like they were spices and his teeth is the mortar. "Why the fuck would I have done it? She wasn't—I didn't even know she was dead. No one fucking told me anything. I just kept waiting and waiting for her to show up, and then fuck, they just lay it on me man – they just wasted me. No one told me she was dead...No one told me. No fucking one."

Apollo just looked at him. There's a thousand thing he wants to say, and first and foremost he wants to tell Wocky Kitaki that no, my dear boy, logic disagrees with you. He wants to stand up, and he wants to give a speech.

_Scientific evidence says that you sir, are a dipshit. You sir, had for some reason, a week ago, some day in May that I can't remember anymore, taken a knife and stabbed your honey bunny to death. Now I know it sounds tough, and I know it sounds like I've just told you you flunk your math exam. Your stomach sinks like the Titanic, and your eyes tear up._

_I do not give a damn. _

_The Forensics said you killed him, so you must have – and this crap about not knowing that you killed someone, is just plain stupid. I'm sorry, Mr. Kitaki, if that is politically incorrect. If it's any sort of consolation you can - ha-fucking-ha – sue me. Hey, I wouldn't mind! It's a free world buddy – except that not all things are. When you kill a person you PAY the price. You either pay it in time, or you pay it in BLOOD. Write that on your forehead – lift up that fringe and write it there, and once in a while, pull your hair up and read what's written there. _

_There's your fingerprints on the knife, and the knife's YOURS. Your momma said so, and – ha-fucking-ha again – the woman who got you around to planet Earth is gonna send you off waving a white hanky._

_So don't give me some kinda lameass excuse---_

Except is it really? Wocky Kitaki didn't look so much a murderer now that he did when Apollo opened his file this morning, looked over the case summary and went 'Oh, a guilty defendant!'. In fact, Apollo was almost afraid to stare at him too long, because if he did, he might see Wocky Kitaki tearing up, and you know that when a tough nut like that tears up the nut's gotta be cracking from the inside. It's scary as shit, because if you see a tough nut crack, it means that whatever is cracking it must be some really big piece of shit, and as humans, we don't want to care.

Keep your tears to yourself, stop ruining my day.

"I hadn't...She wasn't dead when I went down. And I – look. I don't got nothing to say to you, alright? I got nothing to say to you – so shit, make like a tree and leave. I'm not saying anything. ANYTHING at all."

Apollo said nothing. Then he said something.

"Fine. If you won't tell me what happened, at least tell me something. You hadn't known until today that Atila Tiala was dead?"

"No, I hadn't man – how would I have known? I got hauled in here, and they told me I'm under charge for Meraktis. So shit, I admitted to it – because that guy's a dick, so so what if he's dead as nails? I sure as hell don't turn no stone. But then I kept waiting for Atila...And she didn't show up – then today they came in and told me the autopsy was done for her, and I'm under charge for it. Hit me like a car."

Apollo just stared at him. Those weren't the eyes of a liar. Apollo's seen all kinds, but this isn't one.

"You're not lying?" He asked him, just to clarify. "Then won't you tell me what actually happened?"

"No –LOOK. Just fuck off, alright? I don't wanna talk about, and you can't make me talk about it."

"And it's not an act?" Apollo asked again, just for clarification.

Wocky stood.

"_FUCK_ _YOU_."

Then he shoved the chair away and stomped out of the hall. Apollo didn't stop him, because he knew Officer Hart would find him soon and cuff him back to his cell, where maybe he would be beaten up again, if Apollo left it alone and don't tell Hart about it. He wasn't sure what he should do, but he stood to go out – and then realized that some time while he had been talking to Wocky, he had already stood, or had he been standing all along? Never mind.

This trip was a waste of time – but it reminded him of things. There are things that he had thought he had forgotten – like the desire to be the good guy and save innocent folks. He had thought that P.D life had buried that part of him away and now all he's ever gonna think of is the money. Apparently not, because now suddenly Apollo wanted to save this kid.

Maybe it wasn't necessary, or even asked for, or wanted. But well, Wocky Kitaki really hadn't looked like a bad kid. He looked kind of like--- No, no, Apollo's getting too sentimental. He needs some air.

Then he'll go back to his materialistic self.

Yeah, just some air.

* * *

Apollo goes and bill some guys that day. He puts Wocky Kitaki's file into the lower cabinet, where he put files he's working on. Jacques Constans asked him : How did it went? He was curious how Wocky reacted to the second charge of murder, for Atila Tiala. Apollo told the truth – he seemed rather distraught and well, innocent of it.

"What do you think?" He asked Constans.

"What I think is you should bill some more. Seriously – if you're working at Grossberg, by now you'll be regaled with tales of his haemorrhoids, the way you're billing clients. Not a slave driver, but hey – those pictures on his walls don't just came outta someone's bowels."

Apollo laughed. "But what should I do?" He asked him. "I mean, I can't just leave his case alone. I go in there with what he's handed me, I'm coming out in my underpants – if that."

"Well, that's something you gotta figure out for yourself, Pole -" Apollo winced at the new nickname. "--but I can tell ya something, you're pretty damned all around."

"How so?"

"Well, you see here? Now I haven't been in this field for many shitty years, but I still got my fair pile of shit. I can't tell you much but I sure as hell can tell you one thing : If you lose Wocky Kitaki's case, Plum and Winfred Kitaki might blame you. If that happens, you can kiss your ass goodbye. Gavinne wouldn't save your ass if you get down on your knees and give him a blowjob. And if you wanna win the case, then you need to either drag the information out of Wocky Kitaki by hook or by crook – and I can tell you another thing, that kid's got a strong right hook."

He massaged his jaw while he said it. "Trust me – I used to work for the Rivales, and you can bet your ten percent that Wocky Kitaki is synonymous with pain."

Apollo took it to heart. In the meantime, he went and plugged away at other cases. There was one from a man named Matt Engarde, who had been arrested for assaulting his manager, one Celeste Inpax. That had brought him back to the detention center. This time he made sure to mention to Hart that Wocky had been having troubles with the other inmates.

Hart agreed to move Wocky into another cell – an individual one this time – and there he had stayed, shooting Apollo resentful glances between the bars. Apollo couldn't care less – the kid's out of harm's way now, and if he wasn't appreciated for it, then fine. At least he wouldn't have to explain to the judge next week that yes, Your Honour, that's my defendant and not a mummy someone dug up right from the Tutankhamun's tomb.

He went back into the cell, file some stuff for Matt Engarde, and moved out. The difference couldn't be more well, obvious, if someone had taken an ice pick and Apollo's brain and started playing China ice-carving with it. Matt Engarde and Wocky Kitaki – two equal clients with completely different demeanors.

Somehow Matt Engarde, with his 'refreshing as a spring breeze' image and his autograph left a sour taste in Apollo's mouth. Is this what a innocent client looks like? He looked like someone you would see dancing the morning kid's shows. The stuff you would see on a normal girls' wall. Between the two of them, if Apollo had to place a bet, he would have placed it on Wocky being innocent. Call it defense mechanism, but when something is good, we automatically doubt it. Self-defense, is all.

He goes back home, and he doesn't mention it to Trucy. She had asked him about the day's work. He had smiled and said it was okay. Then he cracked a can of coffee, went back to plug at work under the bad light and on actual stools this time. (Trucy insisted that orange and purple were good colours to start with, and Apollo agreed to it, provided they got a red stool too.)

Wocky Kitaki wouldn't get out of his head though, though by now Wocky's gone and disappeared off into the big deep abyss that is the human subconscious.

Now it's not Wocky he's seeing anymore, but Mr. Boogeyman. Boogeyman was Apollo's first best friend, see? Boogeyman was the reason he crawled through high school with a book on his lap every recess, and Boogeyman's the reason he had stood in the never-ending line of students lining up for scholarships and loans. He's the reason Apollo plugged himself into law school, along with Moneybags. Moneybags and Boogeyman hated each other's guts, and by the time Apollo graduated out of law school, Boogeyman and Apollo are no longer friends – now it's Moneybags.

Boogeyman is a child's dream, something crawling out of law thrillers and world peace books. They come out of old school RPGs where the heroes are always stricken by the disease of Heroitis. They wanna save the princess, vanquish the dragon, beat up the demon king, and somewhere along the lines, save the world.

Boogeyman is a very very sinister name, and he should have a black face and you should call him Randy. This is because he's gonna stop you from living a good life, stop you from hauling in the cash. Yes, he's called Mr. Boogeyman because he's plague and pestilence on your moneybags, and if you're friend with him – then you're friends for life and you're not going to have a big bank account to show for it, 'cuz if there's anything Boogey likes, it's punching a hole under your vault and watch your money drip out of it.

But Mr. Boogeyman isn't just all bad things. He's a bad thing now sure – he's the line that cuts you off from your big bad house. But he's also bad and sad because somewhere along life, everyone's gone and toss him aside.

Dreams of helping the innocent out? _Bullshit._

Dreams of opening up charity homes that don't come with their own 'nutritious' gruel? _Rubbish._

A champion of the people that goes back and help out the same depths he climbed out of?

_LOSER._

Yeap, Boogeyman. Every kid's lost dream that's gone and rolled himself into one big snowball of bad stuff that sometimes, is gonna knock-knock on the door of your soul. The guy who goes :

_Knock-knock!_

_Who's there?_

_I'm the thing you don't wanna remember, my man, I'm the friend you swore for life. I'm here to remind you that you are sitting on a fat stack of cash, and fifty years ago, you, my man, promised yourself that you were gonna start a charity home for discarded women like your old momma. Now don't you shut that door in my face, don't you have a conscience, a soul, a sorry—I SAID DO NOT SHUT---_

Apollo slammed the file shut.

Stop it Apollo. Didn't Professor Bullard taught you well in law school? Being a lawyer is in many ways, like being a spy in those corny spy thrillers. Don't get too close to your client, just like James Bond shouldn't get too close to women. If you care about the case, then you become rubbish. Soft, weak worm.

You go into the court, and you do your best. You do your best, because you owe it to yourself to do your best; because you owe it to your money to do your best.

You also owe it to your client – because he paid you – and you owe it to your childhood buddy, Boogey. Except, the difference it – you do your best. But if you fail, then so what, right? One man down rat-a-tat-tat, another score for Boogey to keep when he comes back to knock on your door in those sleepless night.

_did you do your best you sunofabitch?_  
(i did my best )  
_you didnae do you best_  
(i did, it was too bad, but I did)  
_you didnae and the saddest man's the man that lies to hisself before he sleeps because he can't sleep otherwise_

One man less in an overpopulated world. Don't be so sad. Go back to the office and work on your next case, and mayhap son you'll succeed the next time.

"Apollo?" Trucy frowned at him. She looked at him the way she always did when he was fevered. "Are you okay? You're crushing the paper."

He slackened his hands, 'til they were slack as a corpses. "Sorry." He mumbled. He stares back at the words, and he sees a jumble, strings of letter that spelled nothing.

_So whatcha gonna do, Justice? Back when you were in the P.D, I called you once a month. You kept the line on engage, and you told me – you're just doing your job. You can't lose it or it'll be game over for you and Trucy dear there. So now you've got your own game, you're making the shingdig now. What's it gonna be, Apollo Justice. You didnae had a choice then, you do have a choice now. What's it gonna be, Apollo Justice? _

_Is the line on engage, or is your heart on hold?_

"Apollo?" Trucy poked him on the ribs. "What's wrong?"

"Don't worry Trucy," He said, going back to his files like he didnae do anything. "I just got ringed by conscience is all."

"Huh." She rolled her eyes at him, clearly thinking the stress's gone to his head. "And what did conscience tell you?"

"Nothing, because I'm going to ignore it."

* * *

Franziska didn't quite like the atmosphere of the vonKarma manor. The suns seem to rise from the manor itself, and not in awe and respect for the men and women in between it's walls. It rises from the manor for the simple fact that it's so opulent, so grand, so decorated that it stands on the line that separates the beautiful and the gaudy, the perfect and the ugly – and if there's one thing that Franziska cannot stand, it's things that are imperfect. Just like daddy taught her – except daddy's eyes are blind now, and he can't seem to see that this place, in all it's splendor, is nothing but a hodge-podge of ugly things on ugly things. Like steamboat, only uglier.

She walks up the lawn, one hand carrying a briefcase and the other wrapped securely around her whip.

"Hey, amiga, you want me to go with you to the shootout at high noon?" Jake called out from the car. He's her temporary driver these days, at least until she can find a suitable replace for Yogi.

Franziska waved her hand impatiently and stalked up the pavement. It's dark, but it might as well be a starlit path suitable for plane touchdowns. The lights lined the path like pale yellow sentries.

_Salute! Franziska von Karma passes._

Today, Franziska will show her dear papa her files. Today, her files will contain classified information, just like it always did. Today, her papa will read it, and he will tell her what to do and how to do it – and better yet, he will tell her how to do it perfectly. This is not his way of stepping onto Franziska; this is his way of teaching her, though whether with love or otherwise one need not delve too deeply into. This is Manfred vonKarma's way to make sure that not only Franziska is perfect, but her work is too.

She walks. Pass the door. In the hallway now.

Today, Manfred vonKarma is going to look at her files, and he is going to tell her what to do. Then he is going to tell her, and perhaps he isn't – the kind of plans he had for the city. You see, Manfred vonKarma have many plans, and most of them involved perfection to a certain degree.

The day Manfred vonKarma had given up his post as the chief of police, there was a very big party. After that party, he had stood with Franziska in his office, the office that is hers now, and he had looked out of the city. The windows in the office looked out into the city, you see – it's been instated by Dant Sullivan, the one who had gotten dragged off in shameful disgrace after he had been revealed for the corrupted chief he was. It is not a measure of how corrupted he had been that he was caught, it was, according to Manfred vonKarma, his own stupidity.

Franziska remembers the words now, and she remembers it because all these reminded her of grade school, when she would stand outside papa's room for hours to wait until he's free enough to look at her work.

"Franziska," He had said in his baritone. Not Franny, because that is common; not daughter, because she's more than that – she is perfection, and she is his heir. An heir and a daughter cannot be mistaken, because they are two very different things. "That man, – he was caught. Do you know why he was caught, Franziska?"

"Because he was foolish," She answered automatically.

He looked at her sharply, and this is where Manfred vonKarma needs no whip to get his point across – his eyes are enough.

"No, you foolish girl! He was caught because he was imperfect. To think that he is foolish is the common way of thinking. He was caught because he was imperfect, and we must never fall to the the same sort of trap. Do you understand me?'

She nods.

"Good." He turned back to the window. "Tomorrow, you will sit in my seat, and you will be doing my duty. Do you think you are up to that, Franziska? Or must I arrange for a substitute for you until you are perfect enough for this seat of perfection?"

"I am ready, papa." She sounds like an amazon before a battle.

He continued as if Franziska was a mute. "Starting from tomorrow, you will be chief of police. You cannot show weakness, because perfection is never weak. I was not weak. You will not be so either. This city is corrupted. It's filled with filth that I cannot wash out with both iron fists. There is crime everywhere, and no matter what I do, no matter how perfect I am, this city cannot reach my heights. It is dirty, unwashed, disgusting, and worse of all, it is imperfect. But that's all going to change, and do you know why?"

Franziska hesitates. She wants to nod and say yes, she does indeed know why. Be she hadn't, and she hadn't wanted to look like a fish someone's scooped out and dumped ungracefully onto the ground to flop. So she shook her head.

"No papa, I do not."

Manfred vonKarma walks up to her, and then he does the one thing she would have never expected him to do. He clapped her on both shoulders, even shook her lightly.

"We are going to remake this city, Franziska. With you as the helm of the police, and my new position as the L.A state council chairman, there is nothing we cannot accomplish together. You will remake it physically, wash this place down and bleach this place until it is as white as the purest white. I know I don't often say so – but I am proud of you, Franziska. You are worthy of being my daughter, and you will in time be perfect, just like I am. And while you remake the city, I will redecorate it's insides, I will make the core of the city perfect – a city where there is no crime, no insolence, discipline in each and every aspect. We will make a perfect city in short, and one such that can only fit a vonKarma."

Then he had shook Franziska.

"Are you ready, Franziska?" And he had looked a little mad then, Franziska remembers. And she remembered what sort of blasphemous thought that had crossed her mind at that moment – that Manfred vonKarma was far from perfect. He was a foolish old man, a frail old man who foolishly believes the foolish notion of remaking a city that cannot be remade. A man that instead of being strong, is held together by the thin thread of fools' dreams of perfection, a papery thing facade. It was a blasphemous thought, and she wiped it off by answering him.

She doesn't remember exactly what she had said to him though. A little mar on her perfection, but she won't tell if you won't.

"Miss vonKarma, welcome back to the manor."

Franziska stopped short in front of the butler and curtseyed the best she could. He was a butler – servant – but he had been in the family for a long long time now.

"Hello Doe. Have you been less foolish than usual?"

Doe's impassively smiling face, always reminding Franziska of those strange African masks that people hang on walls – impassively bobs. "I have been as foolish as I am usually, Miss vonKarma."

"Excellent," She declared. "If all the butlers in the world show as little foolishness as you do, Doe, then the world will be quite a wonderful place."

"I am flattered, Miss."

"Is my father in?"

"Of course," He bows. Manfred vonKarma's schedule wouldn't change, not even if Hurricane Katrina knocks down all of L.A and eats the manor as luncheon. "He is in his room. Shall I notify him?"

"Unnecessary. I will wait in the upper parlor. Bring me something to eat. Nothing too heavy."

"Of course." He bows again, and like all butlers since the Austen era, disappears into the hall like a ghoul.

Franziska goes upstairs instead, and there she sits at the little second-floor parlor. This parlor is supposed to be for family and friends, relatives who come to visit. No one's visited papa in the pass thirty years though, and certainly if they come they do not come for pleasure. If they come now, they would be horrified to sit there – a large Japanese screen had been erected against one side of the room, and it clashed with the European furniture.

No relative of a vonKarma would sit here if you beat them with a stick.

So Franziska sits there.

Papa's room is right down the hall, and when he comes out at nine in the evening for his supper – and he will come out unfailingly – she will be able to speak to him. And then he will give her 30 minutes of his time and none more, and with that thirty minutes he will review everything the city police had to tell him, and then he will make all the decisions.

They say that politics and the law is never connected, they are fools. The last time Franziska had came here to tattle was a long time ago, but there had been massive amounts of those gang-related cases lately, and to put if off further would be rude, and only fools are rude to their superior.

Franziska opens up her briefcase while she waited for Doe to prepare dinner. Might as well do some work while she waited – she's a busy woman. She pulled out Gavin's report on their renewed charge on Wocky Kitaki, and then she pulled out Payne's file on Engarde. Both side by side, and then she went to work. Then Portsman's one on some of the trailed gang members from the pier's fight.

_So let's see what we can make sense here before papa comes in and call. We've managed to track down some of the people responsible for the pier thing, thanks to Skye. _

_Most of them seem to be from the Cadaverinnis and the Gramaryes both of whom we can't touch – at least not openly. We can severe them from their business deals, like we're doing to Gavinne and watch as they crumble onto themselves. But that's going to take a long time, and their man is busy with Gavinne. _

_And then there's that infuriating man we've lost contact with. Foolishly foolish lone ranger who thinks he can take on the world armed with a chocolate Sneakers bar and nothing more... But is doing that really the right thing? I am perfect, but not everyone in our PD is. What if they decide to band together to take down the city police? I wouldn't put it pass them. Should I have him to break them up instead? And what on Earth are they fighting over anyway?_

"Um..."

Franziska looked up from the parlor table. A girl. She had been so preoccupied with her work that she hadn't noticed the ball rolling forth and stopping at her foot.

"Um, can I have...Have my ball back please."

She looks at the girl. She had to be 15 or 16, a teenager. Ah yes. That woman's child.

"Still playing with toys?" Franziska mocked lightly, picking up the toys. She's glad for the gloves around her hand, because she wouldn't want to touch anything this girl's touched. But her tone was light on the venom when she said it – the little girl is none of her business. A tangent that does not intersect. She handed the ball back to her.

"T-Thank you."

And then she melted off away, just like said ghost.

Franziska shuddered at the thought, and went back to her work. Once the trance of the working state's been broken though, it doesn't come back easily. She paused to stare at the Japanese screen, and the way the grandfather clocked glowered sternly at her, as though in disapproval of her presence in the house.

_Well, I wouldn't be here if there's somewhere else to be. _She shot at it. The grandfather's only answer was to chime lightly. Nine now. Papa will soon be out, and hopefully she can relay her entire report without coming into contact with that woman. The clock chimes again, and Franziska took her whip from beside her and clutched it tightly.

There's something in the air that she didn't quite like, something that smelt like rotten cheese Doe's left in the larder. Was that...Was that...Fear? Fear at staring at her own clock?

But that was the most foolishly foolish foolery she's ever heard of – afraid of one's own home? Next thing she knows she would be putting up a rear view mirror for herself and looking behind every five seconds. Franziska vonKarma is not a coward, she told herself sternly, and being afraid of the irrational, being afraid of something as common as a household appliance, in her own home, was borderline irrational. If not already so.

Franziska tightened the whip. This is her house, she reminded herself. Manor is her home. Even if she no longer comes here anymore, there's no reason for her to feel as though the house was unwelcoming. But it did, and every time she hears the sound of something like a sink dripping in the quiet manor, someone shakes Franziska vonKarma up and puts her in a horror movie. She becomes as afraid as the disgusting heroine that keeps screaming at every hairy monster.

Because every time she walks pass something that used to be – like that little corner table she used to draw on when she was a child, she'd realize it's gone. It'll be replaced, maybe with something prettier, but nonetheless replaced. It's a never-ending nightmare just to walk down the hallway, noting little things that are gone and maybe gone forever.

It's like walking backwards into a tunnel and you watch the light, or everything that was ever yours, getting further and further away until you're left with a place so completely different from what you know that it might as well not be.

It's the way people go back to their childhood homes and burst into tears, only this is a gruesome parody of it. Instead of feeling melancholic and happy reliving your childhood, you're watching a bulldozer go through that same childhood systematically with a pair of clippers, peeling it one layer by one layer until you're left with nothing but the core of your onion bulb.

It's the same thing that's happened to the vonKarma mansion, and Franziska suddenly just wanted to get out of here now. Get out of this place, run back home and e-mail everything to her father so that she doesn't have to see what that woman's gone and done to this place. It's still her house, on 67th avenue where everyone is rich and famous and fabulous – but it also wasn't. And looking at it is a desecration against her sister and every Franziska vonKarma's that's ever walked pass these halls.

And then there is also that little voice.

_Aren't you just jealous, Franny? Aren't you just angry that now your father's got someone else and you're afraid that if you turn out to be imperfect, he'll turn you in for a better version of Terminator? Isn't that why you're so scared? Because when you were the only one he had, no matter how imperfect you are he can only gnash his teeth and take the cane to you to make you a better person. Now he's got a choice, and you don't like this choice, because it means that you can become redundant. You can be thrown away._

No, no, no. She shook her head, just to prove otherwise – unaware that the girl was watching her from down the hall. She's not afraid that father would turn her in for something else – she's not that weak. She's a strong wall, and strong walls don't crumble, not even if you put it against a bomb that's got insecurity written all over it, because a perfect wall would never feel insecure over it's own perfection.

_Even the Great Wall crumbles, Franny._

Franziska vonKarma is perfect, and perfect people aren't afraid. She looked at her papa's door, and half willed it to open so that her papa will come out for supper, she can talk to him, reassure him that she is perfect, and be on her way. Then she'll go down with Starr and get a couple of beers, have a couple of catfights over who's the better lady, and who deserves _that_ egocentric jerk more, and she'll be fine again.

As if in answer to her prayers, the door clicks apart. And then Morgan Fey walks out.

* * *

Pearl Fey hugged the plastic ball. At sixteen she really shouldn't be playing with toys anymore – she's the future of the Kurain channeling technique after all, and such childishness if frowned upon, even if the Kurain clan technically doesn't exist anymore. The ball brings back memories of the village though – and she had half expected that woman to puncture it with her heels. Pearl's heard everything about that hussy from her mother. Not a nice lady.

"Mrs. vonKarma" Franziska said. Pearl pulled off her covers and went back to her door, pressed her ear against it and listened. If mother is angry tomorrow, she wanted some preparation beforehand. "How nice to see you again."

"Your acid response is duly noted. And my name is still Fey – though you may not address me as so. It is Mystic Morgan, and you would think you can remember with all those secretaries of yours."

"My secretaries are for important things and not foolish foolery of this foolish sort."

Mother snorted. "Ah! Such rudeness, Miss vonKarma. But then I guess it's to be expected, your poor dear mother being departed and all...Without someone to guide you well, it's only natural that you'll turn into such a vulgar and unladylike beast – quite unlike my own Pearl of course."

"Pearls are formed from dusts and parasites, foolish woman – and if you any idea of what made pearls in the first place, you would be remiss in naming your own daughter after a mollusk's waste."

Morgan huffs, and Pearl huffed with her too. God, that was so rude! Mother was right, she's so rude!

"A pearl is a glorious gem in our culture, young lady – and I'll thank you not to speak about things that you clearly know nothing about. Mystic Ami, our founder, had repeatedly press the importance of pearls as part of our channeling technique – they are vital, just like how my Pearl Is to me."

"Hah!" Franziska snorted. "Channeling technique indeed. Foolish nonsense by foolishly foolish fools! Shamans and charlatans more like. I bend spoons, Morgan, with the power of my mind. Do you believe that nonsense too? I can bend people with my whip, and I don't think your so-called glorious technique is going to be much better than that. Can you, Morgan? Can you bend foolish fools the way I can? No you cannot – your channeling is a fraud, just like you are."

"Ah-ha! But it's fraud your dear father believes in."

Pearl widened the door just a little to look into the hallway. The light out there's all yellow-like, and she could barely make out their expressions. Just long sillhouettes extending this way and that.

"Hah! As if papa would believe that nonsense."

"Well, he married me, didn't he?" Morgan said.

'He married you, not your channeling techniques. There's a difference between that."

'Ah-ah, but he still did, and even if he doesn't believe our channeling like you insinuate, so do many people on Earth. Our channeling may no be as famous as it used to be, but one day it'll rise back up again. Where as you..." Morgan looked Franziska up and down. "Whereas you seem to become more and more the forgotten daughter."

Franziska vonKarma uttered a small gasp at that, and even Pearl winced. You didn't have to be so harsh, mother. Even if it was true. Mr. vonKarma's her new daddy now, and if she took everything Morgan said by face value, Franziska is no longer so. She had graduated, from being the daughter into the tool – a perfect being is a perfect tool, apparently. It doesn't get anymore perfect than a pair of scissors that you can snip everything with, and won't talk back to you.

"That—Ridiculous! My papa will be my papa. Exactly what are you insinuating?"

"I am insinuating that Pearls will take over your role, Franziska. Think about it. You may be useful as a chief of police and his daughter, but you've left home now. Spread your wings and all that – and now his family's us. Pretty soon it'll be my Pearl that he will polish – and she's a genius, a prodigy. She will become even better at you, at whatever he wishes her to be."

Franziska laughed. "Oh that's rich! Foolish woman, you want to see a prodigy? You're looking at one! I was already running as an inspector at 13 – you don't get much more genius than I was."

"Perhaps, but you – you're independent, aren't you? Oh, I've heard it all. Hiding things from your papa..." Franziska winced, and Morgan took her chance to drive the knife in. "Hiding cases now, aren't you? Thinking it's better for him not to know of things – he's had to gone and ask others for what you could have given him effortlessly. Face it, Franziska – you're far too independent. Whereas my Pearl is beyond perfect – she's malleable. Like clay. We may mold her into anything, and she would never fight back."

Pearl drew back. She won't fight back? That's the thing she's good for?

Franziska laughed again, but the laughter's gotten a strained tone to it. "I hide things from him because it is for his own good. I will handle it the way he would anyway – so what difference does it make? And if you want something that would never talk back to you, you should have given birth to a wet slab of clay, Morgan. It would have served your purpose more."

Morgan smiled. "I have given birth to something that's no different."

At this, Pearl really did gasp. But it never really took heart, because she's her mother's precious – she knew she was her mother's precious. Morgan wouldn't think of her that way – it was all just to spite that woman.

"Indeed. I'm inclined to think that little girl really is sweet and innocent, Morgan. All her sliminess seem to have been left in you when she crawled out of you."

Morgan huffed. "How rude! And it's Mystic Morgan to you. Must I say everything twice?"

"Say nothing. That's the best for fools like you. Now move out of my way, Morgan, or I'll whip you down where you stand."

"Oh-hoho. You would – if you want to face your father's rage."

But something's rubbing Franziska's insides raw, and something mother had said must have rubbed her the wrong way, because she tightened the whip and cracked it. It hit the light beside Morgan, smashing it – with scary precision. A couple more inches right, and it would have been mother's hair it slashed off.

"Get out of my way Morgan – go and taint this house some more with your foolishness, I have no business with you."

Morgan hissed, a cat in a fight, and backed away angrily. Franziska saved no smug smile for her though, just pushed pass her like Morgan was some scary pedophile she's encountered on the street that she wanted to run away as quickly as possible from. The door to Mr. vonKarma's room slammed shut, and Pearl closed the door back quietly.

Then she climbed back up to the bed next to hers, and shook the girl in it.

"Dahlia, Dahlia, wake up."

"What is it, you stupid girl? Can't you see I've been trying to sleep?"

Then Pearl told her everything she's heard, even though she was sure Dahlia had heard most of it herself. When she was done, Dahlia just smiled though, and Pearl was glad the room was so dark or she might have seen how sweet Dahlia's smile was.

"Aww, isn't that cute. Looks like Miss von Karma's very, very insecure. Isn't that sweet?" Her laughter was thrilled. "The brash amazon turns out to be a silly little cactus on the inside after all – all pricks and no insides. Oh Pearl, this is hilarious, don't you think so?"

Pearl doesn't think so, but she kept her mouth shut anyway and laughed anyway.

"Now go and get Iris, silly girl," Dahlia patted her head like she was a touch-and-go puppy. "She absolutely must hear about this. And go quickly...God, why does that bitch put us all in the same room? Channeling technique? Bitch who's got nothing better to do..."

Pearl didn't wait to hear the rest of the monologue, she ran out from the room and hurried off to find Iris. At least when Iris was happy, she's subtle about it.

* * *

Franziska went into Manfred's room without knocking, because no one could have turned a deaf ear to Morgan and her fight out there. Sure enough, Manfred was on his chair when she went into the room, looking mildly amused and smug at the argument that had gone on out there.

"Franziska," He acknowledges. He sounds like a king, and Franziska felt the urge to go down on knee and swear her allegiance. "It's good to have you here again."

Like a king, exactly like a king. The urge again. Should she pledge as a knight or as a queen? Maybe as a pawn. No, stop that. She would be the bishop, at the very least, a rook if not that.

"Papa," She returned in acknowledgment. She walked over to the table and immediately took out all the files she had brought. No invitation needed – things move like clockwork in here, and all the machines are expected to perform without prompting. "I've brought the files for this month for you to review."

'Of course. What else would you be doing here?"

There's nothing accusatory in that tone. It wasn't a sarcastic question reprimanding her for her absence, but rather a genuine question : Exactly what would Franziska be doing here if she wasn't bringing her files like offerings to an unsettled God? She sure as hell wouldn't stay here to play poker with those freakshows of Morgan Fey's. Talking to papa would always come back to the same topics – he's a checklist of perfection, and whenever you talk to him, numb yourself of all sensitivities – because Manfred vonKarma will offend every one of it.

"Yes papa," She returned. "There would be absolutely nothing for me to do here. Now," She handed him the files.

"These are all the cases we've received this pass month. I've left out all the foolish crimes – burglary and thievery. These are the main ones that you would be concern with. A summary of the month?"

Manfred flicked a hand.

"Right. Last month's been a pretty hectic one. A week ago, there was a big fight down in the pier. Our sources from inside the related gangs itself told us that it was between Gramarye and the second faction of the Cadaverinnis."

"Hmph. Fighting amongst themselves, in addition to others? A rotten apple starts from the core."

"It is so. Only one interesting fact came up in our investigation. One of our men in Gavinne told us that it was Kristoph Gavinne that had provided the spark to the fight. This has nothing to do with us of course, seeing as we cannot arrest him for speaking. But it's interesting to note that the three of them might be going down the warpath in the near future."

"And it is confirmed?" Manfred asked. "This man of yours isn't making a foolish mistake?"

"Our man is pretty high up in the rank."

"Not his brother?"

Franziska broached the subject delicately. "We haven't confronted his brother about his association with the mob, and have no plan to do so in the immediate future unless he shows signs of discontent with his brother. So far, we've been keeping track of all his cases, and he seems to be loyal to his brother. So unless he does something completely outrageous on Kristoph Gavinne's behalf, we'll leave that stone unturned. We have another man in the gang anyway, and his reports thus far were all accurate."

"I see. His name?"

Franziska hesitated. "...That's classified, papa."

Manfred looked up at her sharply. "What's that?"

'It's classified, papa – I can't tell you our undercover's name, or we wouldn't call him an undercover anymore, would we?"

"If that's the case, then you could very well call yourself an undercover, Franziska. No one in the senate should have access to these information, and here you are, talking like a recorded machine. What's his name, Franziska?"

Franziska's jaw set stubbornly. "It's classified, papa. I cannot tell you his name. All I can tell you is that's he's high in the ranks, and all his information thus far's been accurate."

"I see. Did he say then what caused them to fight in the first place?"

"Apparently it was some firearms."

Manfred's sneer turned cold. Then it went back to it's impassive, stern self. Franziska wished it was as smiling as her butlers.

"I see."

"Is there something wrong with the agent, papa? Should we remove him and replace him? It'll take a lot of work to work another man up to his rank but we can try...Especially if he isn't reliable."

"No no," Manfred inserted. "Keep him. He's given you nothing but accurate information thus far."

The wording is strange.

"I see, very well. Keep him then." Franziska wrote it down.

"Allow me to continue. Following the fight, we gathered up all the bodies and sealed off the area. Our Forensics' team been hard at work since, and they are currently separating blood and DNA samples from the bodies. They're picking blood from the ground and analyzing individual spots that aren't too tainted, and matching it with our database. Most of them are blood from the victims – or rather, the dead criminals in this case – but there are some that came from the ones who escaped. Wounds, hair, spit...It's all being clocked."

"How long will the process take?"

"Another two weeks."

"Heading the investigation?"

"Ema Skye, Forensics A team, Head. Nail Colfin, Forensics A team, Deputy. Jake Marshall, Street, 3rd Rank. Deesa Hotti, Anthropology. Enrich Eple, Coroner Division."

"Fools?"

"Decently retarded."

"Is Deesa Hotti necessary? I thought the bodies were fresh when you brought them in. Why would you need an anthropologist? A coroner should have sufficed."

A pause.

Manfred scowled. "Franziska vonKarma – are you hiding more than names from me now?"

Franziska cleared her throat. "Apologies, papa. I have been foolish. I've clean forgotten about it until your reminded me of it. The bodies were indeed salvaged from the site hours after they were found, and were only in the first stages of decomposing. They were stored in the morgue – in sterile and prepared conditions to await further studies from the team."

"And then what happened?"

"Two days after that, the bodies were discovered in the morning by the security lady, out of their individual storage areas. They were removed from the storage and left out, where the heater had been turned to maximum power. By the time the lady came around for her patrols, the bodies were well - there's no way to put this delicately is there – smelling like baked cheese. Most decomposed, and while not completely, it's more than just a normal coroner can handle, and they're continuing at an alarming rate. That's why we need that anthropologist."

"The culprit removed all the bodies?"

"No, but a good portion of them. Some storage were just left open, and the heat went in and baked them stupid."

"Hmm..." Manfred pondered this, tapping his pen lightly. "Someone from either camp then, that's smart enough to have tried to destroy the bodies."

"Gramarye or Cadaverinni. Either one."

"Don't forget Gavinne," He admonished sternly. "It could be someone from his camp who had gone through it for some ulterior motive. We're dealing with thugs here, Franziska – and you must never stop doubting even for a single minute, or you'll become foolish fools like them."

"Yes, papa."

"Anything else?"

"Yes – there were the fact that some of the bodies had been mutilated. Someone had cut them up, for some reason. Our coroner was furious when he saw what they had done to those bodies, said it would take forever to look through them with the new batch of work they've given them. The heat got to the insides of some, and it just made it decompose all the faster."

Manfred grimaced. "Cutting up dead bodies now? The gangs have fallen lower than we thought. We will include that then, in our next meeting. Anything else?"

"Nothing else, papa. The star of Nickel Samurai was arrested for assault and battery of his manager. Furio Tigre's lackeys killed a man for owing them massive amounts of money. He was beaten up, and died of internal bleeding on his way to the hospital. It's rumoured that Furio Tigre is in need of money, and is enforcing payment. And the heir to the Kitaki gang was pinned for murdering the gang doctor, Pal Meraktis."

At this, Manfred's eyes lit up again. "He was, was he?"

"Yes papa. The boy's been most foolish. He stabbed Pal Meraktis with a knife. The crime scene was a complete mess, but we managed to salvage the knife that the foolish boy used, and we're on to his foolery now. His fingerprints are all over the knife, and he's going down for it. Plain and simple."

Manfred smiled. "I see." He lifted the report. "Your thirty minutes is almost up, Franziska. I trust the rest will be in the report?"

"In alphabetical order," Franziska returned smugly. Take that, woman – he is my papa, no one else on Earth knows him better than I do. "Just the way you like it."

"The most efficient way of getting things done. That is all. You may remove yourself now."

Franziska didn't move, just stayed rooted on the spot. Manfred looked up, and every wrinkle on his face seem to ask her exactly why she was still in the manor and not elsewhere.

She shuffled, a little self-conscious. "There will be...There will be a party next month, June the 17th. At the police headquarters."

"Is that so." Manfred raised a white eyebrow. "And what is this waste of resources for?"

Franziska's heartbeat doubled. "For me. It will be my birthday, papa – and the officers will be celebrating it for me."

There. She said it. It was imperative that she asked her father, because she wanted to prove to Morgan that her father hadn't traded her in. That she's more than a tool now that she's become the perfect person he wanted her to be. Who knew perfection could bring such a price? A self-sufficient nation will be left alone.

"A waste of resources," Franziska felt her stomach sink, and mentally whipped it back into shape. "There are better things that you can do with that time. Tell them they're forbidden from doing it, and make sure none of them plan one of those ridiculous surprise parties."

_Make sure that none of your officers are celebrating your birthday_ – that's what he's telling her. And Franziska understands, she completely does. If they celebrated her birthday, it would be a waste of time, a waste of resources, and God forbid Manfred vonKarma should attend if she had asked him like she had planned to. What foolery had possessed Franziska?

"Of course." She bowed.

"And don't consult me about such foolishness again – nip the idea at the bud. Birthday parties? Hah! Celebration of the Unproductive, more like! No such thing will happen, Franziska – not if we're going to make this city perfect."

He leaned forward, and Franziska almost thought he was going to pat her shoulders again, just like when he told her they were going to make a perfect city. But all he did was to take the rest of the files in her slackened hands.

"Now go. Your thirty minutes is up."

Right on cue, John Doe knocks on the door, and with a bitter nod, Franziska left the room. In the hallway, Morgan was there. Perhaps she had guessed or perhaps she had been eavesdropping, but her smile was a smug one as Franziska passed her by.

"Well, did he have kind words for you, woman? I knew he had many for Pearl when she passed her tests with flying colours."

_And so did I. But I've gotten so perfect that compliments would seem vulgar, it seems._

Isn't that what people are always doing? When your neighbour's daughter with the ugly singing voice sings at the school concert, you blunt all insults and tell her how lovely she is. When someone is famous, you call them a lousy, talentless hack. Human logic. Ha-ha.

"He had many words to say," She shot back at the woman with a flat smile.

Many of them, none of them kind. Never mind. Perfection does not come with it's own steak. It comes with a harsh diet of nuts and twigs, because perfection is like winter : It's beautiful, but never kind.

Franziska went downstairs, passed Doe, who bowed, and then she was out on the pavement. Before she knew it, she was running again, picking up her skirt even though it wasn't restricting her movement, just so that she could run faster and faster down the path that looks like a lit up plane track. She ran and ran like the house had disintegrated like the one in Monster House, and is trying to drag her back into that happy little family. When she reached the end of the plane track, she took off like one.

"Yar, pardner. Where will the wind blow us cowpokes?"

"As far away as possible." She ordered.

Jake just cocked a lazy eye at her through the rear view mirror, said nothing, and drove off.

Up on the tresses of the trees, some lone birds that had woken up for the night, shut out of the warmth of the manor, flew off.


	12. XI : That Smell of Fish

**A/N** : Uh, just thought I'll point out beforehand. My OC doesn't reflect me. (At least I hope not) While I was fleshing him out, he struck me as well, kinda like an angsty 'oh-my-god, I hate my life imma now write a story where my character suffers from mean parents, just like me' character. You know, self-inserts.

It's just that these type of people are very real, whether it's his ambitious mother or her browbeaten son, and I thought I'll be neglecting aspects of society by leaving them out. Just because they're the main features of angsty self-inserts unfortunately, don't make them any less real. I hope I can pull him off without mucking it up – though I suppose that remains to be seen. =\

Feedback, people? What do you think? Think the angst can be toned down? Should be fleshed out more? A personality you think he should have? Criticism is the first step to improving. :D

* * *

_Eleven : That smell of fish_

At eleven the next morning, Apollo leaves the firm for his sort-of lunch break. He walked down the street, walked up to the almost-extinct now public phone, and dialed in the coroner's office number. As he did so, he noticed a man standing at the corner of the street. Thinking it was just his imagination, he sneered a little at it.

_Don't worry, Boogey. I'll heed your voice of conscience._

Yes, Apollo Justice is here to try his best, after yesterday's dial-up from his long-dead conscience. He thought it had been buried under life, under stress and duress and the desire to seek money – and don't you know it? It comes back up and dial your number like an old pal once in a while.

Apollo's a man of emotion – or so he would like to think. Because most days it seems as though if you take away that emotion of his, Apollo Justice wouldn't be much of anything. Too much a boy to be a man, too much a man to be a boy. A cocktail someone's cocked up and mixed all wrong, and now it's not coming out well. And now today, where does that emotion tell him to go?

It tells him to work, that's what. Billing was nice, looking at numbers and green bills are nice – but money should be due payment when you've worked for it. And what does a defense attorney do but defend? It says right there up on the first page of Ethics that you're suppose to give your client the best defense possible – that everyone deserves a defense. And what kind of defense is walking up the judge with a case like this, when you know full well you could have made a better one?

It wasn't like he could work anyway. He just kept getting guilty pangs while he worked – and that's the problem with being the nice guy, he guessed. You just can't stop saving people in your underwear.

So he's gonna try. Maybe it won't work, maybe he'll find out at the end of the day that it really was Wocky Kitaki's hand holding that knife but hey – if you walk up to him and ask him if he had tried, he would be able to answer you._ I've tried, buddy. I've tried._

At five minutes past eleven, the line goes through. At twenty five past eleven, he slammed the phone down. Not working – not working out at all.

* * *

The council meeting takes place every Thursday in the council hall, the so called Roof of the State. Here is where all the big decisions are made. A city-wide oligarchy had been erected years ago, on the day when L.A decided that L.A had enough of weak-minded and imperfect ruling. An oligarchy had been set up, the perfect system – and who should push his hand in it but Manfred vonKarma? The day the legalization was passed, the day the system was put into place, Manfred vonKarma knew, simply knew, that he was destined for that chair.

Yes, the chairman of the city council. It may sound small to you perhaps, a small step in a small place, but it's not so to him.

After all, his goal is to make a perfect city, and if not for the city's sake then for his sake. You see, it is a small man who wishes for power he cannot control. It is a small man to wish for power over a state, when he cannot control the state with absolutism. It is a smaller man still that wish for control over a country, to be president, and by far the smallest man that wishes for global domination.

It is not how much you have that makes you a capable person, but rather how well you manage what is yours. If you cannot make a perfect city – where there is no crime, no pollution, discipline that is complete and absolute, what hope do you have to make a state so? If Manfred vonKarma had been born seventy years before, he would be a well-established supporter of Stalin indeed.

And the first step to that was of course, to chair the council. The council is now divided between two senators you see – him and Eris Eple. No, it's not a measure of how powerful the lady is that she has garnered enough supporters to rival him – but rather, it is proof to Manfred how powerful he is that she had so many supporters. The world operates on simple terms you see. Either you love something, or you hate it. Manfred's influence is great, and so many dislike him for it. And who better to throw their lots into with the other woman – the one they have a better chance of twisting?

Yes, it is Manfred that is too powerful. Powerful men often make powerful enemies. But powerful men also take control, and once the vote is passed, Manfred will take that chair from Eris. The last vote was a mistake. He won't repeat that again.

Manfred walked up to the steps of the hall and stopped there. Inside, a man – the secretary, pulls open the door to greet him and invite him in, but Manfred waves a hand at him. Unnecessary. He likes to be out here, where the weather is warming up to pan-fry the citizens. What he sees is not the weather, or how revolting and sweaty the people on the streets are. Sweating is natural, he will endure – but it was the grim that he does not like.

On one side of the street, he sees a trash can. Rubbish is in it, and then rubbish is on it – and as he watches, he sees a child pass by and do what any normal child would do. The kid, jiggling and jolly and every inch what Manfred disapprove of, he unwraps a bar of chocolate, and then off the wrapper goes. Into the sewer.

Manfred's frown deepened. He remembered a time when it didn't use to affect him this much – that he used to look upon littering disapprovingly, but not with the same censorious scowl that mars his forehead now. He remembers, but that is no longer him, and the him now sees every sort of indiscipline as a scar on the very city itself.

He watches. As he watches, he sees another man on the other street – no, not a man, a small-man. Not a young man, because he is not a young man. He is merely a man who hasn't grown, is all.

Tattoos up both arms, and while this is common, while this is nothing odd and nothing special and nothing harmful and is the man's own skin, Manfred grows angry nonetheless. Is this society? Is this the city that he's been working on ever since he was a young man himself?

Everything Manfred vonKarma touches is perfect. Like the golden touch, he turns all things perfect, and if he cannot do it by touching it, he'll do it by squeezing it until it achieves perfection.

He held up his career, perfectly. While he had been the chief of police, crime was in an all-time low, but that itself was an exaggeration. It wasn't low-crime, it was no-crime, at least not while Manfred is there to squeeze the city for every cent they had towards law enforcement.

He had brought up Franziska vonKarma, and that was nothing short of perfection. The perfect warhorse, ween on the finest hay.

And now when he chooses to remarry, he does so perfectly too – his choice is beyond perfect. Morgan Fey, a woman with a vision exactly like his. A woman who won't stop at anything to claw that little bit higher in the social hierarchy, for her daughters and for herself. How could that possible not be the perfect choice?

Yes, Manfred vonKarma is perfect. But is he?

He looks at the city again, and he sees, he really sees.

Perhaps his old man's vision had gone sour, or perhaps tunnel vision brings it's toll – but whatever Manfred sees, he is displeased with it. He sees grim and dirt. He sees dirty lawns beside him, and he sees plants that are not perfect, not neat, not boxed, not...Not...Perfect. He sees rubbish, and he sees them on the streets in the form of empty cans and he sees it in the form of humans.

He sees indiscipline, he sees whiny, moody brats at the prime of their life who pause at every store to look into it. He does not see brisk walk, he sees sloppy walk, and he sees, in short, everything that is imperfect with this city that must be scrubbed and rubbed with an iron hand until it sparkles like a light bulb in a parallel circuit.

Manfred sighed, and smoothed a hand over his lids, massaging them and working the kinks out of them. He's old now, isn't he? Seventy. Assuming every man lives until he's eighty, he's got barely ten more to go. He's an old man, and suddenly, Manfred feels very old. Sixty years of trying to use his Midas Touch on everything has left him a little worn. Does he even have enough time? To remake this place into a perfect city?

No he doesn't, and he checks his watch just to make sure. No, in a couple of hundred thousand hours, Manfred would presumable be no more, gone his way in a perfectly fatal heart attack at the age of perhaps, 81. He doesn't have time, but he's going to do it anyway. Why, he doesn't know, but once an old engine's going, it's hard to stop going. It's a personal crusade, a resolution, and because he's a vonKarma, he will see this through. Yes, make this city perfect for that something he doesn't understand.

It is now ten forty-five. For the first time in thirty years, Manfred vonKarma is less than thirty minutes early to a function. He must go now.

* * *

The council hall at the back is like an auditorium, except it's smaller, more pretentious, and had a huge slice cut out of it where chairs are fitted into it in neat rows. Manfred took his place in the third row – calculated to not be so in front that he looked insignificant, and not behind enough that he can be overlooked. The woman two seats away from him smiled as he sat down.

"Good morning, vonKarma. I see you're punctual, as always."

"And I see you've brought your lapdog...As usual."

Her son winced. Enrich Eple, twenty-three years of age. A small-man certainly. His mother's permanent escort,

She doesn't smile, just continue tapping into her phone. A high-flying woman, as they say – except Manfred would say more. The higher you fly, the greater you fall.

"It's not my fault your children are such disobedient little puppies, vonKarma. Now mine – my children are all so obedient, see? They're the picture of usefulness – unlike yours."

"Pointless. Come boy, roll over – you can do that, can't you?"

Enrich Eple gave him a grim look. He said nothing though – and will say nothing as long as his mother is around. If Manfred was a more vulgar man, he would call him without balls. Fidelity? Hah! More like pathetic dependency.

"I'm afraid my children don't obey anyone else's instruction." She sniffed.

"Does that mean he'll gladly fetch for you? Now don't be shy, boy – you can fetch for me, can't you?"

'Of course, sir," He demurred. "What would you like to me to fetch, a few more wrinkles, perhaps?"

Eris Eple smiles. That's her boy. A perfect play. Manfred smiled coldly at him. Eris, perfectly guileless, patted him on the arm. "Calm down, Enrich. I didn't bargain with that secretary to get you in here just for you to waste it talking to people like these. Now watch, your mother is going to be named the next chairwoman of the council."

Enrich nodded graciously, and sat, all eyes directed at the man about to stand up in the middle of the hall. Manfred just smiled, the picture of serenity.

_Not going to happen, little woman._

* * *

Enrich sighed. He had nearly broke something summoning enough guts to be sarcastic. It's a lifetime of having his mother around, you see. Eris Eple is not unlike a million spectators on your debut concert. She's stage fright, technical errors, bad stadiums, and drunken crowds, all rolled into the same sandwich and carried off on both shoulders. It was worse than stage shows in fact – at least when Klavier and Zee gets drunk, Nail can straighten them out. Up here, Enrich is all alone, just him, and his mother – and most days he's pretty sure she wasn't on his side.

Maybe she _thinks_ she's on his side, but she never really stands on the same horizontal plane.

Once they settled down and Manfred vonKarma started discussing with the man seated behind him, Eris pounced on him.

"How's work at the office, Enrich?" She taps into her phone, and Enrich wondered if she was talking to him or the phone.

"It's fine, mother."

"Is it? Define for me what this fine is. Are you earning more than normal? Are you working overtime? Exactly what is this 'fine'?"

"There's no overtime in the coroner's office," He started. "If we get a call in from the pager, we go, and we operate on whatever they send in on for us. If there isn't, then we work nine to five, five to one, one to nine, and so on and so forth. If the person is too messed up, we go, and we pack him up. Then we leave – no overtime at all."

"Don't speak to me about dead people, it's vulgar," She snapped, still looking at the phone.

"If you say so."

"Don't if you say so me, Enrich Eple. This is for your own good, and it's about time we have a discussion. This job of yours is hazardous, Enrich – it's untrimmed, like a disorganized budget sheet. Disgusting, and every time your relatives come by, I don't have anything to say to them. What do you do, they ask me – and I can't answer them. Am I supposed to tell them my only son is a--a-- _disgusting_ doctor?"

"Well, you could be honest and tell them I'm a coroner."

"Don't be ridiculous." She snapped, still looking at the phone. "That's terrible, don't joke like that, Enrich.'

"It's not a joke. I'm a coroner, mother – and we've had this discussion a thousand times to one." He added. Eris is not as easily pleased though.

"Don't tell me when to stop talking to you."

Enrich looked at the fat man preparing his speech.

"You know something, Enrich? I believe it's time you leave this job of yours. I've always told you that you're far better suited on the field of politics. It'll be easy – just look at me. I'll teach you the ropes, and then in no time, you will be part of politics. Together, we would be able to control the city, and then think of what your relatives would say! Should I tell you what they would say?"

"They will be green with envy." Enrich repeated it like a well-read mantra.

He looked at the fat man. How fascinating, globules of fat. Even such a magnificently ugly specimen of the human body cannot divert his attention from it. The alternative would be looking at his mother.

'You've said that to me a thousand times too. This is a meeting, mother – it's about to start. Let's pay attention to it...For once."

"You're not young anymore, Enrich. You're twenty three."

"I thought I was only two years above the legal age, actually."

"Don't talk back to me!"

Enrich steeled his jaw. The angle of an equilateral triangle is 60. Seven times seven is forty-nine.

"Now, Enrich, listen to me. This is what you're going to do. And look at me when I speak to you."

_I'm not a little boy anymore. _ He thought._ --and I don't give a shit. You want to know something scary, lady? The scalpel isn't just for operating on dead bodies, you know. The application of a scalpel can be to many things, and people who work with dead people know how to hide some things. You know what I'm saying, don't you? _

He doesn't say that of course. Why? Don't know. Just like Manfred has no idea why he needs to eradicate this city of dirt and grim, Enrich also had no idea why he needed to be respectful to this woman.

Was it because she's his mother? Maybe. But then thousands have gone against their own parents. Was it because of a deep-seated respect for a half power-mad woman climbing her way up the political hierarchy just so she can tell her bridge club members what's going to be the city's policy before it gets onto the news? Maybe. Or was it because he loved her? Maybe, but that's not often.

Why do people respect parents anyway? You might as well ask him why the sky is blue and why metal is cool – at least you'll get an answer for that.

It's okay, he'll just bottle it up and then one day, he won't like Mondays anymore.

"...Of course."

_And you'll make my life a living hell anyway, if I go against you. _

"You forgot something," He reminded her. Silken, just to goad her a little more. Beside her, Manfred twisted a little to hear better. "You have another son, remember? And I'm sure his job is far more glamorous than mine. Why not tell our relatives that? Surely Enrick's job as an anchorman for a worldwide channel can't be more shameful than a coroner.'

"Don't talk to me about that boy either. Haven't I told you enough times? You're my only son now, Enrich. That boy is dead – had been the moment he told me he wanted to be a shameless television hussy."

_And newscasters strip for the television now, I see._

"Of course."

"Now, we all need plans, and you know it." She told him.

The fat man clears his throat, and gets up on the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen of the council – or if this was England they would call it a House of Lords, hoho-ho."

"Mother, he's starting." He pointed.

"Don't interrupt me." She looked impatiently at the man, then at Manfred vonKarma, and she looks almost excited. Perhaps at the prospect of becoming the chairwoman. He heard it's their agenda for this meeting. "Now Enrich. I want you to think about your future – and then I want you to resign. This dirty job's gone long enough. I _allowed_ you study this subject, wasting four years of your life on it. Now I want you to think about where your life is going--"

The man clears his throat.

"--You're not young anymore, Enrich. And it's time to seriously think of your future. I want you to hand in your resignation, and then I want you to either study to become an honest, influential doctorate (Perhaps neurologist, I've heard neurology is quite the prestigious subject). It's either that, or you're going to join me in politics."

Enrich ticked the options off mentally. Hey, something seems to be missing. Where's the backspace button?

Verbally, it was : "Mother, I'm still young, alright? Leave it be."

"You need a plan, Enrich – an idea, a detailed, thorough, 30-year goal--"

The man with no personality pointed down at the podium."Look. It's starting. You wouldn't want to miss your_ crowning_ now, do you?"

* * *

Excerpts of the City Council Meeting, 27th May, 2026

Prepared : Hannah Vermont

This meeting was held to determine the next chairperson, following the disbanding of the previous council, and the retirement of chairperson Kane two senator motioned by the previous meeting is Mr. Manfred vonKarma and Mrs. Eris Eple. The senator elected will remain until 28th May 2028. Further, to be seen, 32-2.

The council recognizes Marvin Grossberg, spokesperson for Mr. Kane Bullard, who is not with the council today.

**Grossberg** : A-hem-hem! Ladies and gentlemen, are you quite settled? I'm afraid if we prolong the meeting any longer, we won't be able to vote in everyone we need to vote in today. Now I don't need to tell you all how proud I am to be part of this meeting today – ah, the people, the solemn, serious, intellectual expressions and the ROOF! Just look at the ROOF, boy – it's magnificent! Oh the scent of fresh lemons...

The council recognizes Marvin Grossberg, and his scent of fresh lemons. The house applauds him solemnly, seriously, and intellectually. He is pressed by Mr. Turner Grey to continue. Mr. Turner Grey mentions the weather report, but is not recognized by the council as a subject.

**Grossberg** : A-cha-cha. Yes, yes. Well, I don't think everyone in this hall today needs reminding why we're here. Every one of you have been in the previous meeting with the exception of perhaps – what's that there? Mr. Eple?

**Eple** : Pardon?

**Grossberg** : You weren't here the last meeting were you, m'boy? Should we do a recap for you? Don't want you to trail off half-asleep now!

**VonKarma** : That is unnecessary! The council need not replay ourselves like cheap entertainment every time someone new walks into the hall. We are not dancing ladies – must we behave like one? I motion that we continue! No time should be wasted!

**Turner** : Now listen here! Listen, vonKarma!

**VonKarma** : How am I supposed to not listen to that booming drivel of yours!?

**Turner** : You have quite the nerve! The council is not your lapdog! Whether we review the previous meeting for Eple – and other members who weren't here for the previous meeting, is a council decision! You can't make it alone! This is upsetting, do you hear me? Upsetting!

A motion is put forth by Mr. Turner Grey that our previous meeting is recapped. The motion is voted on by the council, 49-1.

**Grossberg **: Ahem! Since we have agreed that we will recap the previous meeting, and not just for Eple, mind you. There's a lot of us here who aren't here the previous meeting. Why, Bullard himself was here the previous one. Here today, gone tomorrow, as they say but -ahem! There's no need to get edgy there now, vonKarma! Shooting me dirty looks is bad for my haemorrhoids, not to mention it's not going to speed anything up!

Now, in our previous meeting, we agreed on the following. Under the state oligarchy system instated, we will nominate two senators. Out of these two, one will rise to be chairperson. The other will be automatically voted into our senate, which will consist of ten person out of as usual, the nominated twenty. The two senator put forth is of course, Mr. vonKarma, and Mrs. Eple – that's your mother right there, Eple! Don't forget her now!

Good-nature laughter is presented.

**Eple** : It would be difficult, Mr. Grossberg.

**Grey** : Alright, alright, enough recapping. Can we go on now? The voting? The weather lady clearly stated that it's going to rain later, and I don't want to get home wet.

**VonKarma** : Then maybe you should have stayed at home, fool!

The council once again recognizes Marvin Grossberg.

**Grossberg** : We're going to over the duty of a chairperson. As a chairperson, it will be your duty to overlook the betterment of this city, including the improvements, if existing, that is done to the city. You will be charged with the duty to improve the city of L.A, to the best of your ability – and see that it does not become a worse place. The chairperson will of course, abide all the rules – I don't think I need to bore you folks by repeating _this_ one. The senate will not interfere with the police, and the council will be responsible to and only to the state. The chairperson will not interfere with the rest of the state, and his business will be purely--

**Eris.E **: A-hem.

Grossberg : Ah yes, of course! His or _her_ business will be purely domestic, and will not interfere with any of the independent branches of L.A, unless specifically requested to do so. Failure to comply with the terms put forth – which you can check later with Hannah there—will result in the chairperson's removal from the existing senate, and the decision as to what we will do to him or her, will of course be decided by another council meeting. I think that's all – did I miss out something?

**Grey** : You missed out on the fact that they're not supposed to abuse their power.

**Grossberg** : Eh, so I have, so I have. I don't think we need to worry about that though – our elected chairperson should know that much. Under no condition are you allowed, folks, to abuse your power. There – I've said it. Now is there anything else I've missed? Something someone wants to say?

No council member presents an argument. Marvin Grossberg recognizes the council's decision to begin voting. The voting will begin from the lowest rung of the council – by voting in all nine of the senate members. The chairperson will then be voted on, and the one with the lesser vote will fit into the last spot on the senate.

Voting begins when Marvin Grossberg announces it. As the spokesperson, he readies the ballots that will be cast. The computers are not used to cast votes. See File number 51-1, 25th April, 2019. The format used is similar to that of an election. The casting box is put into the center of the hall, and every name on the list is read out, and voted on once by every member. The results are tabulated by a panel of neutral judges, Miss.G. Gourdy, Mr. S. Cannes and Miss C. Stone.

The voting takes place within one hour. The nine senators voted in are :

Elizabeth Devereux, Turner Grey, Marvin Grossberg, Wayne Nelson, Patricia LaSalle, Ohm Nomato, Po Lavouiser, Frankie Corrida and Alexander Chancellor.

Following the voting, council members discuss the latest senate member. Mr. Marvin Grossberg calls the council member to attention.

**Grossberg** : Now, settle down, settle down people. A-cha-cha – LaSalle, if you'll kindly sit down – Turner –

A momentary pause, in which all the members once again settle down. The council hall is once again quiet as everyone waits for Mr. Grossberg.

**Grossberg** : Alright, we have the nine senate members now. Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen – congratulations, me - but enough is enough. We may all go for some hotpot after these, but let's try to be orderly here, alright?

Now, the next part, as you know, will be slightly different – we're going to have to decide, very very seriously. As we know, the chairperson's position was Mr. Kane Bullard's until very recently. Now that he's gone, we need to replace him. We held this meeting, in order to vote – but Mr. vonKarma has brought forth a very interesting proposal. Mr. vonKarma, if you please?

**VonKarma** : (_Stands_) Of course. Now. A vonKarma is perfect in everything they do – and this includes the city that we live in. My concern, first and foremost, is for the city. Some of you--

Noise.

**VonKarma **: --might choose not to believe me. But the city is what I am concerned with – and of course, it's perfection. I cannot say with certainty that whoever is elected into the chair can function well, especially if it's not...Me.

**Eris. E** : Now wait just a second, vonKarma. What are you implying – that a woman can do the job less well than a man? I challenge that statement, vonKarma!

**VonKarma** : You can can that old female versus male argument you always use, Eple – you know that's not going to fool anyone. We've only heard you spout that garbage a dozen times or so this past month. We're sick of tired of your little games frankly, and I believe I speak for more than half the council when I say we're more than sick – we're revolted.

You use small tactics, Eple. You bring up big issues at every chance you get – an argument with you swiftly turns into that age-old neanderthal argument. While I respect a coy woman, there comes a time when coy quickly becomes synonymous with boring. Now, a perfect person wouldn't need that sort of garbage.

Eris E : I find it equally disgusting that every conversation with you seems to resort to the word 'perfection', Manfred. Perfection this and that – What proof do you have that your being in rule would bring about such 'perfect' change? And need I remind you that change brought about by your daughter does not count? Whether you're deluded into thinking you're perfect or not – it doesn't make a difference.

**VonKarma** : It makes all the difference, foolish woman. A perfect person makes no mistake.

**Eris E **: Do you make no mistake then?

**VonKarma** : I make no mistake.

**Eris E **: Hah! A likely story, vonKarma. Can you explain to us then, exactly what makes you so perfect? I hear you're all for evidence and recorded testimony when you were chief of police. Do you have that kind of proof now? Because all I'm hearing is you claiming that you're perfect and posh – but you've given us no evidence of that. Are we to take your words at face value, then?

**VonKarma** : And that, was why I stand to propose in the first place, you foolish woman! If you will be quiet for five minutes, you'll learn a lot – and maybe then you'll be a little less foolish!

**Eris E** : VonKarma – how dare you speak to a lady--

**VonKarma** : I will speak to a fellow _senator_ however I please. You cannot stress enough the equality of females and males, Eple – and I cannot stress it enough either. We are equal, and therefore I afford you no courtesy. Now..._SIT!_

Mrs Eris Eple sits. I would like to add for the record that Mrs. Eris Eple does not look pleased. Medical insurance to be inspected, suggestion.

VonKarma : (Towards the council) Now, as I was saying. I suggested that in order that we see who amongst the both of us is better equipped to clean this city up and make it a place worthy of a vonKarma...I suggest that we allow the both of us each a term a chairperson, for the full period of two months each, and see who--

**Grey **: [Unintelligible]

**Devereux** : Excuse me, vonKarma. I would like to speak.

The council recognizes Elizabeth Devereux, senator.

**Devereux** : Thank you. Are you suggesting that we allow the both of you full chairperson's privileges while you aren't elected? Clarify for us, vonKarma.

**VonKarma** : What I am suggesting is that we--

**Grey** : This is impossible! I won't allow it, and as senator, I vote NO! NO, NO, NO! There will be no privileges for them, not while they're unelected and not over my DEAD BODY--

**Eple** : Dr. Grey, maybe you should allow vonKarma to finish his speech?

**Grossberg** : The boy has a good point – sit down, Grey!

**Eris. E** : (Side) Whose side are you on, Enrich?

**Eple** : [Comment too far to be heard]

**Grey** : You don't tell me what to do – I have seniority on you in the office, Eple. Now vonKarma! Explain yourself – do Eple and I here need to open up that old fool brain of yours and see what's in it?

**Grossberg** : E-Eh...My haemorrhoids! Everyone, please--

**Corrida** : With all due respect, Mr. vonKarma, I cannot believe you'll suggest something like that either.

**Nomata** : [Translator unavailable]

**vonKarma** : Enough...Enough..._ENOUGH! _

Minute is temporarily blank, as council is silent. VonKarma walks down to the podium in the middle of the hall. Eris Eple sees, and tries to follow him down into the middle of the hall. Her son, Enrich Eple, restricts her from following.

**VonKarma** : All of you will hear me out – all of you, and I want perfect silence while I am talking. Am I being understood?

Council does not recognize anyone.

**VonKarma** : Good. Now what I am suggesting is this : We will allow the both of us to work as chairperson, each with an allocated time frame of two months. Kane Bullard's been the chairperson ever since the system was introduced. We have no idea how this new person is going to take up duties – and if it pleases the lot of you to think that I am incompetent and cannot reach the standards of chairperson, then feel free to do so.

What I am suggesting is simple. Allow us the term, and then at the end of it, we'll see who's the best for the job. We'll review it – the senate as a whole – and check every aspect, from the crime rate, to city beautification, to domestic as well as inter-city and inter-state affairs. In short, what I'm offering the lot of you is a chairperson with a warranty – someone you can return to the store when you find it unsatisfactory. The both of us will be subjected to scrutiny, base on our capabilities, and not our political influence. That, is my proposal. Is it accepted.

**Eris. E** : It is not accepted, vonKarma!

**VonKarma** : (Wags finger) Ah-ah. Are you afraid, Eris Eple? Do you quake in your heels at the idea of facing me in a capability contest?

**Eris. E** : Of course not – it's just that this whole thing is against the rules! Senate – what do you think?

**Nelson **: Now I'm an expert in law and order...And I say, rules and regulations are rigid. If they say no, it's no.

**Lavouiser** : But then we will not know what deal we are getting, so to speak, yes? Once chairperson is elected, it is for two years. VonKarma, though I suspect for ulterior motives – his proposal, it is not unreasonable.

**VonKarma** : (Bows) I thank you for your kind words, Lavouiser. It shows you are a man of vision.

**Devereux** : Then I am a lady without vision then. I disapprove, vonKarma – this reeks of bending the rules, and I don't like it.

**Grey** : Bending? He's BREAKING all the rules! No, I say – NO!

**Chancellor** : Well, it's not quite unreasonable...It's rather like electronic warranty, yes? What do you think, Nomato?

**Nomato** : [Translator Unavailable]

**Chancellor **: He says he approves of it, ladies and gentlemen.

**Nomato** : [Translator Unavailable]

**Chancellor** : Well, I think so.

**Corrida** : It's not a big deal, I guess. Two months each isn't a very long time – we can see how they act. Shall we vote on this, guys? Because my brother's filming something down in Vitamin Square and I need to get there with his lunch box. Marvin, if you'll do the honours?

**Grossberg** : Right, right. Alright folks, round up here. We're going to vote on this one too. The new members of the senate, making it nine...Ah yes, yes. The motion would be to allow both chairperson candidates to take the place of chairperson experimentally, for two months each, making four months – to test their capabilities. Who will go first in this motion of yours, Mr. vonKarma?

**VonKarma** : I'm feeling generous today, so it can be Eple.

**Grossberg **: Right. Now, a-cha-cha, let's vote, folks!

The motion to carry out vonKarma's motion is approved, 5-4. Council adjourns, with Eris Eple taking the chairperson's seat for two months.

* * *

"That bastard vonKarma! I'll make sure he suffers for this!"

The weather's gone sour during the meeting, and now it's pouring. Not typical L.A weather, but then nothing seems to be typical these days. The frying pan's decided to let up and douse out it's food for a bit. Enrich plowed through the rain, dragging his mother behind him. She seemed determined to fight him every step of the way – going back for some unknown motive.

To stab vonKarma with an umbrella? No, that Enrich wouldn't allow. He would pour confetti over the man as thanks.

"Calm down, mother. It's not the end of the world – you did get the job after all," The rain nearly drowns out his voice, never loud in the first place.

"Don't be an idiot! I raised you better than that, Enrich!"

"Sorry." Enrich righted his glasses, and in the rain he must look like someone's second-hand husband. Mousy and browbeaten, too battered and bowed to even start a sentence with 'can-I'? He glows like a beacon in the dark weather. Look people! Here's a guy with no balls! And if you don't think he deserves a neon sign for that – he certainly does.

She turned around to glare at him.

"Why are you so darned happy? Do you understand what this means for me – for _us_? Do you realize that this is bad?" She shouted over the rain.

"I'm sorry – but I don't see how this is going to affect the both of us." He said, in his calmest, most I-am-in-control voice. He knew how his mother was like. Always had been. Now she's going to go home and cry into a pillow or two for having had her way thwarted, like some spoiled child. When he was young he'd always thought it was so deep and thoughtful when she cried – as if she carried some deep buried burden that is so deep and so meaningful that you'll never understand, no matter how many times you ask her.

_Hey mom, why are you crying?_

_Go away, Enrich – you won't understand._

Yes, he doesn't.

"Don't you have ambition, Enrich? Did I brought you up to be this weak-minded? Think about it – if I got to be chairperson of the council, then you'll be voted into the doctor's alliance faster than a speeding bullet train. Now this is ruining all my plans – all of it! How am I going to face Cecilia and Martha now, Enrich, how? "

"I wouldn't know, mother."

"That smart mouth of yours!" He lifted his umbrella, as if those words are going to hurt more than the rain. What did Yu Tzu said?

_Never fail to comply._

_Being good as a son and obedient as a young man is, perhaps, the root of a man's character.' _

_Politely put, people with no balls are good people. Yeah, I got that._

Even some part of Enrich realized that he was rather pathetic. No, this is not a great revelation, nor a new one either. It was simply that, a revelation that comes back and stabs him somewhere below the gut everyday. He got it. Understood it. He tried, he really did, except maybe some days he didn't quite understand his mother – like now, all rainy and gloomy like.

So let's lay it all flat out and see what part isn't needed in this autopsy of life.

Here's a woman, let's just call her Jane Doe, so that we won't confuse her with people, in a purely coincidental way. She may have a husband, she may not – God knows Enrich never got to shake his hand. Can't say he's terribly missed either, this woman's got enough firepower to send both of her kids to private school, and then some. Sometimes Enrich thinks maybe she got the money by spreading her legs, then immediately felt bad for thinking that. After all, this is his mother. You don't ask questions like that in daylight – not of a woman who's raised both kids well.

Nope, no crack and cigarettes for the both of them, not unless you want a five-hour preaching. Yes, Jane Doe's invested a lot in her life. She's a heavy gambler – but what she bets on is not horses and not numbers. She's thrown all her money, her house, her whole life, into these two boys. She wants them to grow up with what she never had, blablabla, and she wants them to grow up well. They're her lifelong investment, her foolproof savings. That one gamble that she's put every paycheck into.

But that's the thing. Life's a very big gamble, and like all gambles, sometimes you don't win. Sometimes things don't turn out well, and you don't get your payout. So this is Jane Doe, but you can just call her Eris Eple anyway, because they're just about the same person. Disappointed with life, and is going to spend every moment she had trying to double and triple that bet so that her kids will turn out for the better.

But she doesn't mean bad. Don't look at her that way. Just a little disappointed with life, just a little bitter. Still wanting that dream where she gets two perfect little boys – her perfect little boys – and they're going to make it big in the world, and then she's going to shove it down all the damned whores in her Bridge Club. Life story in four paragraphs – haw-haw. Someone needs to write a goddamned story for this, and the someone – like her own kid, should respect her for it.

Enrich dragged her through the rain.

"And those friends of yours – I think they're what's wrong with you, Enrich. They're a terrible influence – especially that Klavier Gavin brat. Never seen a ruder man before. I talked to him the other day, and he kept swinging this way and that while he talked – like he had no backbone. And that Colfin is even worse. Blue hair! Thanks to him, now look at you – God, bleached hair. I should never have allowed you to join that silly band."

The car's almost in sight now. Grey and blue all over – like a giant ugly bruise in the parking lot.

"That other one is no sweet thing either. All of your friends are pathetic, Enrich – they've got no vision. No goals. You keep hanging out with that friend of yours – that blue haired one. You need ones that won't influence you--"

He stopped dead in his track.

She turned and glared at him. "What is it? If we stand in the rain, you're going to get sick – you know you've never had very good health."

"Mom," He said. "What is the problem now? You got what you want, didn't you? Chairperson of the council – and even before him at that. Is there a problem? If that's so – tell me – exactly what is the problem with your being chairperson? Do you hate the job? Don't like the padding? Do you want me to massage your shoulders or change your throne's cushion?"

_And while you're at it, tell me what else you want. Earn more money, get a better job, stop throwing my socks around, clean my fridge, have good connections, cook good food, get a pretty wife, drive a couple of Benzes, work the microwave, read your mind, always appear on the horizon when you need someone to carry your bags, jump buildings, catch bullets with my teeth -WHAT?_

She looked dumbfounded at his question.

"Well?" He demanded.

"It's not that I'm displeased with the prospect." She said. "– but I'm angry that he seem to have manipulated me into it, understand? I don't mean to sound like a hyena – but well, it just seems so strange! Him giving me a chance and all, when he knows full well he could have won right there just on votes alone."

"Not really," He countered. "Manfred vonKarma is a very capable person, mother – and perhaps he thinks he'll get a better chance if he prove himself on the chair. Maybe he thinks he can do better than you."

She frowned. "Is that so?"

"I think so."

Eris Eple ponders this a little while, chewing on her lip. She was unsatisfied with the answer – but she knew there was nothing more to dig in that grave. It's just one big hole. Nothing to see here, move along. If she wanted conspiracy theories, she can go to her club members.

"Humph, if the old crock thinks he's winning one on me by putting this-this _practical_ test on me, then he had better think again. I have my own connections too you know."

And he didn't doubt it. Eris Eple didn't muck through fifty-something years of her life alone, armed with a wet blanket. Maybe she might even take down Manfred vonKarma – though the chances of that? A thousand to one. He smiled though, his best, doctoral smile that they made him practice before he branched off to forensics. He's never quite mastered it, but it was better than nothing. Nail's the better smiler.

"Don't worry, Eris. It'll be fine. You can tough him out."

She nodded. He'd like to tell you that the rain dries up in respect for this revelation, but it does not. She patted his hand though, and at the moment, he almost feels bad for lying to her and setting her up for a fall.

"Alright. Maybe it's not such a faraway dream then..." She sighed. "I do think we need to get you on the doctor committee you know. Even in your job...As long as you get on it, you'll be fine, right? They'll help you whenever you need help, and your future will be secured."

She looked so worry he almost pats her on the shoulder – except he doesn't of course. Wouldn't want those germs near him. "Of course."

"Alright, alright. Let's go. I'm playing this game of musical chairs with him, Enrich – and I'll be damned if I don't beat him soundly in it."

He is utterly serene. "Of course, mother."

* * *

Manfred stopped on the second floor of the council hall before he left. He liked the little verandah here – very nice, very old fashion, very compact. He waited, tapping one foot and then the other. Shouldn't be long in the waiting now, that man's almost as punctual as Manfred is. Almost – but not quite. He said he'll call soon. He should know...The thing that the council.

True enough, six minutes into waiting, his phone rang.

"VonKarma."

"_Congratulations, Mr. vonKarma."_

"I would return the same."

"_Of course. Congratulations are in order. Do we need any more? One of these days we've got to meet in Harlem, vonKarma, and then we can have a drink. Or two?"_

"Oh, we will. Harlem it is. Two drinks, I believe.'

"_Of course. Will we get drunk?"_

"Not unless you leak your liver."

"_Very good. Do we visit the markets? I hear it's fine things there."_

"We won't. We'll put our wineglasses at the doorway."

"_The dogs will come then."_

"The dogs will come."

"_Alright vonKarma. You know the drill. I'm just the wineglass – you're the one buying the whiskey here. So don't be late to the party."_

"Of course."

The line goes dead. Manfred smiled into it. "Over and out," He calls out, just to make it seem like he's in a military movie – because all these reminds him of the Art of War, yes – that was most amazing. War indeed.

* * *

The Justice Spaceship, otherwise known as Girl Bike Model 601, launched, set sailed, and touch down on the front door of the coroner's office at eight at night. This is after seven calls that Apollo Justice had made all over the city's police department.

The first call he made was to the coroner's office. He had been informed that both the coroners in charge for the shift, Dr. Turner Grey and Dr. Enrich Eple were both out for some function. Apollo had asked – politely, mind you – that the receptionist direct him to someone who could actually get him the autopsy report for Atila Tiala and Pal Meraktis – the full one, mind you. Not that lousy handicap they sent him.

He was convinced that the autopsy is the way to go. He'll see if there's anything strange on both reports and then decide where to go from there. He could drop down on the site of the murder – sans permission of course, since it wasn't like he was working for the state. That or he could go and grill Wocky Kitaki again. It really all depended on what were on those two reports – and perhaps he'll even change his mind about helping Wocky, go back to the office, and bill people the way lawyers do.

His call was passed to two nurses – the first was Mimi Miney. She was, to put it in the nicest term possible, sort of annoying. She told Apollo that it was impossible, that they don't give autopsy reports out like free candy, and hung up.

The second call was to the coroner's office again, and this time it was another nurse, Ini Miney who picked it up. This is even worse, as the only thing he managed to make out of the conversation was that he liked, really like to, but he like, cannot possibly, like, have it, ya know? Yeah, it made perfect sense.

So he made another call. This one is to the police department, because if the police send down the word of Lord that Apollo Justice is to receive the file, he would receive it immediately. So he made it, and the man who picked it up was no other than the Wild West guy. Notorious alright, and other than being more jumbled than Ini Miney herself, he was also notorious for throwing out random shootout threats. Apollo hung up at the first 'pardner.'

The next call was picked up by a man name Dick Gumshoe, who Apollo thought would be his lucky break. Man didn't sound smart enough to spin a bottle clockwise. That call unfortunately, was terminated halfway when a lady snatched it away from him and threatened to make Apollo _cough it all up_, because apparently, he was breaking laws just by harassing the police about autopsy reports.

The fifth call did not go through.

The sixth call was terminated by Apollo himself. He nearly turned deaf when a high pitch static rang out of it. Maybe someone had been shouting down it with a mic? No idea, but it was definitely not conducive to good hearing.

The last one was – one desperate attempt – to call Klavier Gavinne up for permission to touch the files. He had thought that alright, maybe he wasn't the friendliest man on Earth, nor were they the greatest friends around, but you never know, right? Besides, Trucy had pointed out that the prince (And what's so princely about blonde men anyway? Blonde men are a dime a dozen.) would be cooperative and kind, because he is just that much above mortal men.

So fine, Apollo called. Klavier Gavinne answered the phone, and this was his response :

"Herr Forehead, don't you think you should stop being such a busybody? Go bill someone, make some money – quit bothering me, ja? Wocky Kitaki probably did it anyway, and may I remind you that I will be the prosecution for the case? So no matter how much evidence you gather, even if you dial God's hotline and request for an army of guardian angels, I will sweep them all aside with my dazzling self. So give it up. You will do well to devote that frowning forehead to something else, ja?"

Ja?

JA?

_JA?_

Apollo had never felt so much like injuring a person. So now he's here, shivering slightly from nervousness, looking up at the coroner's office. The thing looks almost like something out of a cartoon where they throw shameless amounts of green onto a building to make it look creepy and cold – except Apollo rather thought this doesn't need green to make it creepy and cold. It was already so.

The knowledge that in there - they keep bodies deformed and distorted, back from being run over by cars and murdered and stabbed – that certainly didn't lessen the feeling. They were just being kept in there, like cold cheese you store in the larder, waiting for some glassed doctor with bad handwriting to cut them up like yesterday's salmon and serve it to you raw and yummy. Files and folders in their cabinet.

Trucy disembarked from the back of the bicycle. "Polly, do you need a scarf or something? You look like you're up in Alaska and not boiling in L.A."

"Children must be," He sneezed. "--Seen and not heard."

"It's alright. I'll just become mute when you're listening."

'How come I'm still hearing you then?"

"Your ears are getting heavier..."

Apollo rolled his eyes. This is what you get when you bring your little sister along in a break-and-enter attempt – which was what he fully intended. Alone, he's going to breakdown before he even breaks into the place – though he preferred not to think of it like that. All he's going to do is to see if the office is open for a 24-hour working day today, and if they aren't there, then he's going to drop in, and see if he can find the files.

Then he's going to rub it all over that Klavier Gavinne's face – you see if he won't. Oh, and help Wocky Kitaki out.

"Alright, so what's the plan of attack? Are they going to hand the report over by parlay alone?"

Apollo looked at the building obediently, one tiny street and a couple of street lights away. It didn't look like anyone was there.

"Maybe they're not you know, working overtime or something."

"There's overtime in the coroner's office?"

'There must be – I mean, if someone gets killed or something, they'll probably need to operate on them before it goes cold or something."

"Eew." She commented.

"Yeah, eew. Let's just hope that no one gets into any trouble, and no one pops by at night for some refresher or something."

"What kind of screwed up person would pop by at night just to look at corpse?"

He sighed. "You and your imagination, Trucy...I wasn't talking about corpses. I was talking about files – a doctor might pop by to get a file he needs, or for an emergency case in the police department. If they do...We'll have to be careful, alright? No disappearing acts either – we sink and swim together."

"Remind me why I'm here to be arrested again." She said.

"If I'm arrested, I'm not leaving you alone with the house – I'll come home to a mess. You're coming with me to the detention center."

"Woah, sibling love there, Polly. I see you're bordering on the incestuous."

Apollo chuckled, and the both of them approached the glass doors. They were locked, obviously – and with what looked like electronic locks too, from the look of it. Apollo peered at one side of the door – then the other – and announced :

"I don't think we're getting in from this way."

"Well, there's always the window. There's got to be a couple."

Apollo nodded. There were windows beside the building – at least, he remembered there were on the few occasions he'd been here to collect stuff for Grifforth. Chances are, they were going to be locked too though – and Apollo would have to break at least a window or two to wiggle in. He wouldn't have to do this if the state had just handed him one simple report without having to make him run around the entire state via phone lines anyway. And he certainly wouldn't be here, if he was to be honest about it – if Wocky Kitaki wasn't Wocky Kitaki.

He sneered at himself. _There you go, Apollo. Just admit it, won't you? You're not that noble – this isn't just about helping Wocky. Sure you think he's innocent, sure you want to help him, but it doesn't end there, does it? There are other things you considered too. If you botch this case, the Kitakis are not gonna be pleased with you, and when you come down to it – you're just scared. _

And after that : _I do want to want to help Kitaki._

He just felt sorry for the kid. That sounded sort of pretentious, since he's only a few years older – but Wocky Kitaki looked genuinely scared. And he reminded him of someone else he's seen before.

"Polly, are you sure about this?" Trucy asked worriedly, knocking at the door. Sounded solid, so probably can't break it here too.

"Yes, I am serious." He announced. "We're going to get in there – and we're going to get the autopsy report for both of them. The complete one – not that rubbish that they hand to the defense."

"What was on that one anyway?'

"I don't know – they might as well send me a Playboy magazine featuring the both of them. All it had was their height, background – and oh yeah – the fact that they're dead. Real informative stuff too, like the colour of their eyes. And when I hit them up for it this morning, all they did was--"

"Blow you off. Yeah, I get it. But are you sure about this? It's kind of you know, illegal."

Apollo hesitated. Just a beat, and he masked it by looking left and right down the road. "He reminds me of someone I knew once."

"Who?" Trucy looked down the road her brother seem determined to stare down – even though there was no one on it.

"He looked...Scared, you know? When I saw him, I just thought he looked kind of unsure – like he had roads laid out in front of him and signs one on top of the other. North, south, east, west – and he doesn't know which road to take or which decision to make. Take this one, and it's full of holes. Take the other and you risk being blown up by like a land mine. Unsure. Indecisive – what's the word they keep using as a catchphrase? Not decision-savvy?"

Trucy raised an eyebrow at him. Then she turned away and smiled. 'If you say so, Thinker," She announced. "Let's do this then – where are we hitting?"

Apollo tapped his chin. "The back window I think. The last time I was here, it led into one of the coroner's office. Unless they've done some major redecorating – it should still be the same."

"Yeah – good idea. I wouldn't want to break into some kind of...Storage." She shuddered.

The both of them headed to the back of the building, using the alley beside it. There are two other buildings beside it – it was by no means a plain office on plain ground like the PD headquarters, but it had a small road beside it for muscular locomotion and cyclists and dumpsters. They took it, head back – and while Apollo was going, he thought he heard sounds from inside the building.

"H-Hey, Trucy – you heard that?"

"Stop creeping me out, Polly – it's not working."

"No..." He grumbled. Maybe it was just his imagination – he was rather freaked out by the place.

"Come on, you chicken." Trucy dug into his ribs and pushed him forwards. "Bwark-bwark, no space for you in the grocer's freezer."

The back of the building had the window – just as Apollo remembered it. It was the nine panel kinds – about three feet by three feet? It'll take you some time to get into it though, because you still have to break the window itself, as it was permanently latched and locked by the doctors there.

This time – they needn't do such thing. The window was bare – empty, blank, except it wasn't because some careless doctor had left it apart – it was because where there should be glass and metal, there was just a big empty hole. Someone's broken in before them.

"What the hell?"

"Ugh, Polly! You lose at everything don't you, even breaking-and-entering!"

"Trucy!"

"Okay – no joking – but who on Earth other than you would break into this place?"

"No idea – but it's definitely broken into. Look at this window – the end bits are all jagged and stuff. Either I'm hallucinating and the glass all over the ground is just diamond dust – or some guy's broken in before us."

"What do we do? Do we call the pol--"

Whatever she was about to say was cut off though, because a loud sound interrupted her mid-sentence. It came from the front – at least it felt that way. A loud sound that no fool can mistake. Sound of glass breaking, glass spraying all over the sidewalk making chink-chink-chink sound, a party of dangerous confetti – and then the alarm immediately follows, wailing like a bitch.

Apollo turned to Trucy, pale. "Shit – you don't think--"

"No way, it wasn't us. It was this dude who broke the thing right here."

Apollo stared into the window – and suddenly, he felt a deep chill. The window was like a hole, a gapping, grinning hole that led into black and only black. He almost sees a row of white teeth opening up in a grin. Like an inviting Cheshire cat.

"What do we do then? If we go in now..."

"Someone's coming!"

A pair of heels stomped the ground – and then an old security lady. "YOU!" She shouted at them. Apollo raised his hands right there. "What you do you think you're doing, whippersnappers!? Thought you were going to break in, eh? Well, think again! This is the third time this month – and I finally caught you!"

Apollo shot Trucy a panicked glance. "Uh we're..."

Trucy just let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"What are you screaming about? I haven't even called the police on you yet – and you better believe I will, youths!" She spat the last word out like it was poison on her tongue. Trucy unwrapped her arm from around Apollo's, and cut herself off and – Apollo knew that look – rearranged her face into one of youthful fear.

"Oh thank goodness you are here, Ms. Security Lady!"

"If you think you can get away by buttering me up--"

"No! It wasn't us! There was this man – this absolutely horrid man – he just broke out of the front door!"

The old lady looked at her suspiciously. "And how do you know that!? You're standing at the back window, looking all suspiciously like – and you know what's happening in front there? Double the suspicion in my book!"

Apollo cleared his throat. Okay, he can do this too. If his fifteen-year-old sister is making lies like pancakes, he can too.

"We were at the front – and then the man broke out--" Oh God, he hoped they were getting this right and what they hear had been the door being shattered, or they were so screwed. "--and well, we got a little scared, so we ran behind here. We only saw this window on chance."

Trucy nodded vigorously. "It was a really scary man too! He was holding a bunch of papers in one hand and he was shouting as he passed us. I think he was--" She leaned forward a little, confidingly. "A little mad you know."

Oh God, Trucy what are you saying--

"Ah-ha! Document thieves, was it? I knew they were up to no-good, those good-for-nothing kids hanging around here. Now you two are going to show me where they went. When I get my hands on him, I'll make him sorry he ever thought of crossing my turf!"

Apollo was sorry too, but Trucy – and it must be the whole performing thing that's ingrained the performer's streak in her – but she took the old lady's hand like she was a kindly old lady she's just helping to cross the road.

"He went that way." She announced, pointing in some random direction – and then before he knew it, the both of them were off, chasing after that mythical thief that may or not may not exist. Leaving him to bite the dust in stunned silence.

That left him alone, and he should be thankful, shouldn't he? That was a break in- right when they were here, what are the chances of that? Except...What had the security lady said?

Another of those chills went down his spine.

_That's the third this month, and I finally caught you._

Third this month? That meant that someone's been routinely breaking into the coroner's office – which for all practical purposes double as a morgue. After all, the dead bodies were right there in the next room – conjoined with the office like twins. The bodies were there, and whoever this person who's been breaking in, he's been doing it so frequently, and for what? Apollo had insatiable curiosity, but this is one of those wonders that he rather left unsolved.

This a storybook opportunity, more golden than gold and one in a million of happening, except he was rooted on the spot. He didn't want to go in there – just stay out here 'til Trucy comes back for him. The window was no help either. Standing in light, looking into darkness – it makes your flesh crawl.

Who was in there? What were they after? And...Are the bodies out of their storage?

Somehow, he had a horrible feeling that they were – even though it's just as likely it was just some document the stranger was after. What way to know but to set sail. He still couldn't move himself though.

Slowly, very very slowly, he stirred himself. He should get that file he came here for – even though by doing so he got the feeling he was stepping onto some very big piece of turd, perhaps even already ankle-deep in it. Call it gut feeling, liver feeling – whatever organ you want – by stepping in there, by digging deeper into things, he's crossing some invisible line someone's drew.

He still needed that file though – and he had better get to it before that security lady comes back and catch him red-handed. Atila Tiala, Pal Meraktis – here comes justice.

* * *

Trucy hurtled after the guy, not even knowing where he went. There were only two ends to the road though. Right or left? Well...Right it is then!

"He went over there," She cried, and the old security lady and her ran down the road blindly. For an old lady, she sure could run – Trucy had expected her to drop dead of exhaustion midway. She expected them to be on the wrong track too – but lo and behold, when they got a round the corner, there was a young man right there, leaning against the wall in apparent exhaustion and calling someone. They would have passed him by too, thinking he's just some random guy – if he hadn't paled the moment he saw them and ran the opposite direction. That told all.

"Stop, whippersnapper!"

The old lady rushed after him, but Trucy dropped out of the race. No need for her to catch up, she just stood and watched.

Before he ran off though, Trucy thought she heard him talking on the phone. What was it, saw it? Saw wheat? Saw what? What did he see?

She squinted after the both of them. Weird man. He didn't look so special, just some random guy you would meet on the street. But then again – all the props she pulled out of her hat usually looked normal too.

* * *

Apollo climbed through the broken window. That first step seemed the longest, hardest – but once he got moving, he moved quickly. The place he landed on was certainly the coroner's office. The light from outside showed him that much – a clean, pristine office that still had the smell of disinfectant clinging to it. Apollo bumped through it, clumsily knocking things around. Both his hands were gloved – he had borrowed some of Trucy's gloves expressively for this mission.

Once he stumbled out of the room though, it immediately got a lot darker. The hallway outside is vertical, long, and connects to the receptionist area. Now the receptionist area is bathed with the moonlight's glow – and if he had squinted, he would have seen the outline of broken glass. Apollo turned the other way instead, using the wall as crutch to walk.

Darkness is everywhere, darkness is grinning, darkness is yawning. He knew it was irrational, but it's the same way you feel when you walk through a graveyard. You know nothing's going to climb up of the ground, but you still find yourself darting more glances than usual at the macabre bulges on the ground.

Apollo groped his way into the back room. He opened the first doorknob, and found another office. Thank goodness the morgue and lab is in a separate section. He closed the door back on that one. The next several were also offices, and one was the staffroom or some sort of mess room – if the plastic table was any indication. So that wasn't it either.

He finally hit jackpot on the sixth room he opened door. Apollo went in, groped around a little, before realizing he was staring at the face of metal cabinets – a neat row of them – all containing files. He went back to the hallway and peered down it. The receptionist area still looked eerie – but there weren't any signs of anyone else coming. If the police comes, it won't be for another five minutes yet. Response from the police department? Very slow. Apollo groped the wall again, found the light switch, and hit it.

_Damn, I should have thought of bringing a flashlight. Oh well. Beginners. I'll bring one the next time...If I'm not arrested for this._

Once the light was on, Apollo realized that strange thing he had felt when he had smoothed his hand over the front of the cabinet – was actually a large label, containing the date range of all the files in there. Someone in the place must have OCD, because every single cabinet here is labeled like that. At least it wasn't like the ones in the public defense offices – now those were a mess.

He saw what the previous man had been after too – because one of the cabinets was half-open. Somehow, he didn't think it was because the doctors had been careless, and it was a relief in some ways, because it meant the man hadn't been messing with the dead guys.

Apollo moved to the ones at the end of the second row, where the date were the newest. Here, the dates were no longer as neat as tidy as the earlier ones, so Apollo simply picked the one with the least dust. It was the newest – but it still took him more than five minutes before he found the file he wanted. Atila Tiala was eay. Unique name. Pal Meraktis was harder though – there were half a dozen M names in the city, and it took him another two minutes of nervous picking to find the files.

Once he did, he didn't stop to look at them. That can wait 'til later, when he photocopies them and rewrite them so that no one will know he took it directly from well, here. He hugged them to his chest though, like long lost friends he's welcoming home. Apollo heart was going at a mile a minute – beating it's way right out of his chest cavity. His legs were starting to numb with pins and needles too – and he nearly collapsed when he heard sounds coming from outside.

"_...Woah_."

Apollo scrambled up as quickly as he could and hit the light switch. It turned out to be by the skin of his teeth, because no sooner had he turned it off, footsteps could be heard. If he had turned if off any slower, whoever was in here would have seen.

_Who the hell is it this time? Not that crazy nutjob again, is it?_

Muffled sounds. At least it wasn't the police. He didn't think so. If it was the police, there would be loud shouting by now. The police is a pack animal, they don't run alone – and when they run together, they make loads of noises together. It can't be more than two persons...maybe three.

"Whoever did this is so getting his face punched. Look at this place!"

In the silence, it sounds like they're shouting – even though it can't be more than a whisper.

"Whoever did this must have had a grudge against cleanliness too. The coroner's are going to have coronary...Hey, I made it rhyme!"

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to shove this Luminol down your throat."

"E-Eh. Relax. Look at this."

Shuffling.

"Brick?"

"From the inside."

"Look." A pause.

"Eh?"

"Think this is our culprit."

"A bat? Genius. Neighbourhood suckers..."

"Not everyone is as scientific as us. Now let's get out of here and wait for Starr to get here."

Yes, please do. Apollo let out a tiny breath. Not relief, but his lungs were burning, and asphyxiation was nigh. Please, just get out of here. Don't come in here, please, anything but. There's a guy and a girl out there he guessed – two officers. Maybe they were on patrol from around here. Whatever – Apollo doesn't know, and hopefully, he won't have to find out.

"Wait. Let's go in there and see what the guy was after."

"What? No!"

"Come on, you know you want to."

"That's unscientific," Came the feminine hiss. "And I don't want to go in there – the morgue's right there on the side. What if it's that nutcase who dragged out all the bodies again?"

_Dragged out all the bodies?_ Apollo shot a panicked glance at the cabinets. They suddenly look a lot more sinister – because it was probably the same nutcase they were talking about.

"Are you a bottle of Iodine, or are you a scientist?"

A female voice. "You're not going to goad me into this one."

There was something else – but Apollo couldn't hear. He pressed his ear against the wall, but it sounded faraway, and there were shuffling noises too. He guessed they were walking away – maybe even out of the building, and he was saved...For the time being. He stayed there, until he was sure whoever had been here was gone. At least another five minutes before he finally got the guts to stand up again and walk to the door to look out.

His knees felt like rubber. Criminal life is definitely not for him. At least he got the files though – and he's never doing this again. Next time, he'll try a more legal method, like paying someone who works in here to smuggle it for him. And alright – that's not exactly legal either, but Apollo's brain had gone flying off like a train on a severed elevated rail.

Two more minutes – and he was pretty sure no one's out there. He can't stay any longer either, or he risked being here when the police comes.T hen he'll truly be trap – with no way of explaining why he was in the place with someone else's property in his hand. And they might even think he's that nutjob who drags out the bodies – for what?

Apollo was about to walk out of the room – when out of impulse, he went back to the cabinet left open. The one that had been rummaged by the previous intruder. There were a few files there that looked like it had been hastily stuffed back, and unthinkingly, he just grabbed them. He'll read through these later – and see if he can figure out why that other guy broke into this place. He hugged those too, and then he was on his way out.

He almost made it out too – almost made it out scot-free and safe. But his brain was half dead, and all he could think of was to crawl out of this God-horrid place. He used the front way instead of the back way – because if the police is around, either way is a gate to hell anyway. Apollo picked his way through the shattered glass all over the reception area.

Then the lights flickered on, and he started – like a bunny caught between the wheel and the ground.

From behind the counter, Ema Skye climbed up. "See, Nail? I told you if the nutjob's still around, we'll catch him this way."

The other man who climbed up just smiled.

"Yeah yeah, cheeseburger time. Oh and, hey buddy," He raised a hand in greeting, grinning. "You're under arrest, by the way."

* * *

Daryan Crescend was sitting on someone's yard wall when Apollo Justice was led pass him. He was whistling an old tune with his ears plugged in, looking for all the world like an immature chip off the block who's gonna whine about how the moon's a cold mistress tonight. His eyes were watching though, and a moment later, Machi Tobaye walked down the street, casual as you may please, and plopped down beside him.

"Looks miserable, doesn't he?"

"Like Daryan's cooking," Machi announced.

"Aw, can it. I make good food – you just don't appreciate it."

Daryan whistled some more as Valerie Hawthorne pass him by, and she shot him a dirty look. Damn neighbourhood punks. Daryan wondered if she recognized him from the last time he was around. Probably not.

When the police procession had passed, Daryan hopped down from the wall, and dusted his hands off. They looked like damned hobos – the both of them. Drifters or train-jumpers going from town to town with a pack in hand and nothing more.

"What are we...Do?" Machi asked. "If police...We no entry."

Daryan smiled grimly. "Don't worry. He's a goddamned lawyer – he'll wiggle his slimy way out. In the mean time, I've spotted another juicy piece of steak this shark can sink his teeth into."

He looked at the disappearing wee-wee of the sirens. He spat. God, he hate those lawyer types.


	13. NOT A CHAPTER

** Something or other** : Um, since you don't have an acc, and I don't think you drop by my profile on a daily basis, I decided to upload an explanation for my...Shall we call it a sudden absence.

Anyway. This is also for anyone who's bumped into this piece, and here's the news : It's discontinued. Probably permanently, yeah. Life's gotten busy lately. I'm having the equivalent of SATs/O-levels in my country, and it's really do well-or-die around here. So yeah...Time on the books.

Okay, so maybe that was sort of a lie. I don't really spend as much time studying than I do having exams, which is one every month, and most of them span two-three weeks. I spend all my time drilling through exams, cramming for tomorrow's exam, rinse, and repeat. AAI's been sitting in my DS and gathering dust like an anthill with sugar since it's release.

I've also decided that, after almost half a year of middling about (Yeah, that time when TMWLATS and MoM was produced. LOL, long acronyms much.), I've decided that I want to study Illustrations after all. For those who have dropped by my deviantart account, you can probably see that I'm no great talent in it. I'm behind everyone my age by five miles wide and sixteen miles long. Since college intake is next year, around April/August, I need to drill my skills up to be, if not on par, then at least not so far behind everyone else that they can't see me if they employed Galileo's telescope on me.

So yeah, for **tldr people** - to summarize, I am busy, I have been afflicted with the disease of life, and I need to go stop being noob in art because goober jellies don't make money out of it. And yeah, this story is probably discontinued until I find time for it, or more likely, permanently - since the college that I've set my mind on is a grueling four-assignments a week kinda place.

Yeap, that's it.

I'm so sorry for anyone who's been reading and looking forward to it's continuation, I know it sucks when authors dump their stories around and go galloping off on horses like they hadn't just left a bunch of heartbroken cats behind. (I know, because most of the time I'm the one who wants to stab them with pencils) And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I give you permission to stab me.

It's been a fun time here, but I must go now.

**Over and Out,**  
_Carlis_. ;)

P.S : _(GOOD LUCK FINDING ME TO STAB HAHAHAHA-)_


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